#so once he left after the holiday season (he stayed from mid November to mid January that visit) he packed all his stuff | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aggressivelyclueless · 5 years

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hey @kiinotasha this one’s for you

human!Danny/runaway/pitch-pearl

a handful of regret, a little solace, and a pinch of fluff

i know it’s super late but thanks so much for being patient! the end bit took me like six tries to get it to stick how i wanted

i will also be posting this on ao3 at some point fyi

Winter had officially rolled in that morning. Amity Park had all but shut down with the snow - after-school activities had been canceled; the highways had turned to skating rinks in the mid-morning sleet; even retailers had begun to close their doors for the afternoon to wait out the worst of the storm. Before five o'clock, when the sun would have set, the streets were vacant. Everyone, it seemed, had holed up at home.

Everyone except Danny. Nevermind the snow - he couldn't stand to spend another minute at the house. His mother's accusing voice still cut through his mind: you'll never listen to reason, will you? Look at the facts, Jack! It's simply not possible! None of it had been directed at Danny, but he resented both of his parents nonetheless. December, to him, was the season of hey-Tuck-can-I-stay-the-weekend and please-Sam-I'll-do-anything-to-be-out-of-the-house and if-I-have-to-keep-putting-up-with-this-I'll-die. When he wasn't home, at least he could hear himself think!

It wasn't fair. He hated how easily any conversation could slide into animosity, he hated the gnawing misery that crept up steadily from November onwards (and that was if he was lucky - one year the radio stations had all conspired to deliver tell-tale sleigh bells as early as October the twenty-first), and he hated how no one listened whenever he said he disliked the holidays. It was always oh, but you've got to celebrate something, don't you? or how can you be so sour at such a lovely time of year? or the affronted but surely everyone loves Christmas! as if he'd stricken the event from the calendar simply by wishing it ill.

If only.

So, despite the snow and despite the cold, he'd made his way out to the Nasty Burger in the hope it would still have been open, and in the hope that Sam and Tucker might still be there. It wasn't; they weren't; and after a moment of overwhelming frustration and despair he'd turned tail and run. In that moment, he didn't care where he ended up, or how far away it was - all that mattered was that he left his stupid house and his stupid parents and their stupid fight behind. Forget the snow, the fire in his belly grumbled, forget the cold. Just run.

By the time he'd run out of breath, he'd made it as far as the bus station out of town. He had a few bucks on him, but only one line was still running due to the snow. He didn't care; he took it, ignoring the rough night out there, isn't it? from the driver as he boarded, and collapsed into one of the seats in the back. He wondered how far he'd really have to go before he could escape the last echoes of his mother's voice. Even then, as the bus trundled sluggishly through the snow, he could still hear her.

It's not possible, Jack! Such a feat defies science! Jack, you can't be that foolish!

How many years of it did they expect him to take?

By the time the bus dropped him off, he was numb. The doors creaked open, he shuffled out, and the cold bit him anew. It was dark out now - how far had he gone, he wondered. The streets certainly looked the same. Had he ended up a town over? Three towns? Ten? Distance meant nothing; the bus doors closed behind him, and it lumbered off.

He was on his own.

The snow appeared to have let up, although it hadn't quit entirely. It fell not with icy malice but was fat-flaked and lazy, and the scene before him was silent save for a street-plow that rumbled from the parking lot down the road.

Isn't this what you wanted? to hear yourself think?

His mind began to tick again, and the lonesomeness finally struck him. He really was on his own, without Sam or Tucker or even Jazz at his side, and the silence of the town seemed to press in on him. Go on, something in him whispered, you wanted to be alone, didn't you? How long do you think before they'll even notice you're gone? Two or three days, maybe? Or maybe they'll only think twice on the twenty-sixth, after they've wrapped up?

He couldn't bear to think that. Tears stung in the corners of his eyes, refusing to be dismissed by his palm or the back of his sleeve, and the tightness of pent-up anger gave way in an instant to a cold hard lump of dread. He really was alone.

Now what?

He turned to the road again. The bus had dropped him off near the edge of town, it seemed - how far had he really gotten from Amity Park? Where had he ended up? He didn't remember which line he'd taken, just that it had been the only one available to him, and he cursed himself out for it. How stupid are you? Out of all the days you could have picked to run off, you decided that the best time to do that was in the middle of the snow? Great going, idiot!

He held his mobile in one hand. It didn't like the cold; it had been at 66% earlier that afternoon, but had steadily dripped down to 27% within the span of an hour or two, and it skipped to 16% even as he stared down at it. You know no one's going to be able to come get you, right? said the sharp voice of guilt. You think even the Fenton RV could handle the roads like this? and that's assuming Mom and Dad quit arguing long enough to even answer if you call home. . .

He had to call anyway. He knew that much, even as his vision blurred around the edges and tears froze in the corners of his eyes. He slipped behind a line of shrubs to escape the wind, hit Home, and tried to collect himself as he waited for anyone to pick up.

Come on, please, I'm so sorry. . .

"Hello - ?"

"Mom? I'm so sorry please don't be mad I need you to - Mom?"

The mobile had died in his hand, but for a desperate moment he failed to process. "Mom. . .?"

Something in him cracked, and he stared down at the device. The screen was dark, and failed to respond to his touch, but it felt as if he'd been purposefully abandoned. Look what you've done. This is your fault. What are you gonna do now?

He didn't have an answer for that one. Don't stay out too late, kiddo, you'll freeze out there! He remembered his father saying that once, when he'd said he and Tucker were going to go out. That had been last year, in January after the fights were over and there was enough snow to go sledding. He remembered, too, that he'd had a second jacket then.

Would he really freeze?

He shoved the mobile back into his pocket. It hadn't been quite so cold earlier - how long had he already been out? There had been daylight for a while. An hour, maybe? That sounded about right. It always got dark early in December. Still, he'd have to find someplace to hole up. Maybe this town's Nasty Burger, or MacMeaty's - they'd still be open, probably, and they might even have a phone he could borrow.

That, and then he'd find out how far he'd gotten himself from home.

With a basic objective in mind, he set off again. So long as he was moving, the cold didn't seem so bad. The storm had relented, at least, and it didn't look to have snowed as badly as it had in Amity Park - but, out of familiar territory, he was lost. With only one direction to go, he kept along the side of the road in the hopes it would lead him into town.

The road led him through a stretch of trees, all heavy with snow and ice and bowing downwards, and he knew the rest of the town couldn't be too far ahead. The hazy yellow of the streetlights was cast into the sky somewhere to his left, and as soon as he spotted the path off the main road he took it. He hardly registered anything else until the pavement gave way to uneven dirt under the snow, and he paused; not city streets but a cemetery sprawled out before him, but he only hesitated for a second before treading onwards, ignoring his own superstitions. Graveyard, went his mind blankly in an effort to get the word to stick to something. It didn't.

The breeze shifted suddenly, and Danny stopped. It wasn't that the snow was going to pick up again - it appeared to have quit for the moment - but something was so awfully and so suddenly wrong that, for one perplexing instant, he was pulled out of coherent thought altogether.

Graveyard finally stuck.

Danny turned about himself. The only tracks in the snow were his, and without the snowfall everything around him was perfectly still. Why, then, could he so clearly feel the eyes upon him? Where were they coming from? Without meaning to, he cast his gaze downwards - have you stepped on someone? - but could discern nothing from the blanket of white beneath him. It was bad luck, he'd been told once, to tread on a body at rest. Had he just done that? He stepped back as if he had, although he couldn't really tell for sure. "Sorry," he mumbled, as if it was adequate, and felt stupid. Look at you by yourself in the dark, apologizing to someone who's already dead, who you probably didn't even step on anyhow. What, like they're going to care?

Ghosts, according to Danny, weren't real. That was a fact in his mind. Both of his parents had been ghosthunters for their entire careers, as far as he was aware, and neither one of them had actually seen one. If the anomalies did exist, surely one would have been caught by now?

What manifested before him, however, looked very much like how he imagined a ghost to look. It appeared, suddenly but without a sound, on one of the headstones still visible under the snow. Its body was cast predominantly in shadow except for two bright green eyes which were most definitely affixed on him. It was vaguely human-shaped, although Danny had to squint a little to see it; it was peering out at him from behind the stone, or at least that's what he thought it looked like it was doing, and when he stared it flinched back.

Ghost, went Danny's mind, and the sentiment stuck the first time. It couldn't have been real, and yet it was exactly like every explanation his parents had ever given him about one. Great. What does it want? Do you really have to deal with this too now?

The spirit - if that was what it really was - stared back in equal silence. Danny hadn't fled; emboldened somewhat, it crept upwards to peer over the top of the tombstone rather than from around the side. Its body remained mostly in shadow, and only when it moved were the white wisps of its fingers and hair visible against the backdrop of snow. It grasped the corner of the stone, as if looking over a tall countertop, and was still again. After a moment of deliberation, it finally spoke: (Lost?)

Danny hesitated. What could he reasonably expect to tell it - that he'd come out here by himself to get away from his parents and that he couldn't get back home? Nevermind, for the moment, that this was a genuine ghost. "What?"

(You didn't run) said the ghost, almost optimistically, eyes still on Danny. (How come?)

Danny stiffened. "Hey, wait a sec, what's it to you, anyway? Are you even real?"

The shadow slumped, and the eyes fell. (Yeah)

A small part of Danny was surprised at how quickly he'd accepted than answer - then again, he'd been told since infancy that the anomalies were real, and had only really rejected it out of spite for his parents - but that led to the pricklier questions. If ghosts were real then they were also dangerous (he'd been told that, too, countless times) and he was acutely aware that he was on his own. "What do you want? Don't you have anyplace to go terrorize, or is this it?"

The spirit met his gaze again. (Terrorize? Why would I - ?)

"Because that's what ghosts do," said Danny, "Probably. Look, no offense, or maybe some offense, but I didn't come here for you to show up and bug me."

(Then why did you come here?)

"Hey, that's none of your business," Danny snapped, refusing to acknowledge exactly how ridiculous it was that he was in a graveyard at night having an argument with a real ghost, "Go away."

The apparition's eyes flashed. (Why don't you go away? This is my spot. I was here first)

"Fine. Whatever." Danny jammed his hands an extra inch into his pockets, shoving the encroaching chill away and turning to stomp across to the other side of the graveyard. Stupid ghost.

The ghost, on the other hand, seemed to change its mind. (Wait, I didn't mean it - please come back)

Despite himself - you wanna freeze out here? - Danny turned.

The shadowy spirit wafted up from its place by the headstone and floated closer. In the air, Danny could make out the suggestion of its limbs, and the white fog of its hands and feet, but even when it faced him he couldn't distinguish any features aside from its eyes. (Please stay)

Danny wanted to run. Everything his parents had told him about ghosts was marching through his mind - they're dangerous, kiddo! you don't wanna face off against one by yourself! - and it had finally dawned on him what might happen if he didn't get into town. Despite that, he found he couldn't run. The spirit sounded desperate. Probably because it'll tear you apart as soon as it gets your guard down, snapped the relentless voice of his mother, but he shoved it away. What if it really was desperate? What if it needed his help?

What if it wanted to rip him to shreds instead?

The spirit's eyes dimmed, as if perhaps it was thinking about something, and when it asked its voice was slow and careful. (You're not okay, are you?)

Danny frowned. "How do you know that?"

(You didn't run) said the ghost, (everyone runs)

"Yeah, maybe both my parents are ghosthunters," said Danny, as if that might ward it off if it decided at any point to attack him, "Maybe you'd better leave me alone."

(You think I'm going to haunt you)

"I'm supposed to think you're not? I don't know you - didn't know you - ugh, you know what I meant. You're dead. I'm not. Ghosts haunt people. That's kinda their thing. Why would you not come after me? Why are we even having this conversation? I told you to leave me alone."

The ghost went silent for a moment. It slunk downwards onto the snow, huddling a little tighter against itself as if wrapping its arms around its knees. (I guess I thought maybe since you didn't run you wouldn't be scared of me. I just wanted someone to talk to)

"Don't you have - oh I don't know - ghost buddies or something for that?"

(They moved)

"Moved?"

(On)

Danny bit his tongue. The loneliness struck him again, just as mercilessly as it had before, but this time it wasn't his own. All of a sudden he felt foolish - is he really the only one that's lonely? - and he let all his breath out in a prolonged puff. "You're the only one left here, aren't you?"

The spirit nodded; despite that it only barely held a coherent form, the motion was clear.

"You're lonely."

(Aren't you?)

Danny recoiled as if struck. Of course you are. Lonely, lost, and real stupid. You did this to yourself, remember? He turned, dashing a palm under his eye as if the ghost wouldn't have seen it. "Maybe."

(Maybe?)

"Yeah," Danny snapped, although there was little anger he could muster. "You heard me. Look at you, asking all these questions - who even are you, anyhow?"

(Just a phantom) said the phantom, glancing back at the headstone from which it had appeared, (name's long gone)

"Just a phantom," Danny echoed, making the spike in his chest twist. You still wanna just leave him there by himself? He couldn't do that. He knew he couldn't. Nevermind the cold - he wasn't going to abandon anybody that had no one left, even if it was someone who was already dead. "That's - that's really it, huh?"

(What about you?) the phantom asked, (you're still kicking. You've got a name, don't you?)

"It's Danny."

(Oh, I like that one) said the phantom brightly, sliding upwards a little, (you promise you'll stay?)

"Yeah. I mean - maybe. I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but - I'm kind of in huge trouble. With everything. Ugh, I'm so stupid - "

(Tell me about it) the phantom ventured, (I mean, if you want to)

Danny sat with a soft crunch in the snow. Once it started to come out, he found, it suddenly became much easier. "I guess I did it to myself. Maybe I thought I wanted to be on my own, I mean I can't just keep listening to them argue like that, so I left, I thought it'd be easier, maybe it doesn't matter, but now I can't get back and it's so cold and it's my own fault I'm so stupid - "

(I don't think you're stupid)

"Look at me. I'm sitting here, in a graveyard, in the dark, talking to a ghost about my problems, which are my own fault to begin with," said Danny, one sob coming out instead as a sardonic laugh. "Sounds pretty stupid to me."

The phantom hesitated. After a moment it slid over to sit next to him, and its eyes brightened. (I don't think it counts unless you can't fix it)

"What are you talking about?"

(You're still breathing, aren't you?)

Danny felt like he'd struck a nerve somehow. "I didn't mean it like that - "

The phantom's eyes turned upwards. The snow had started up again; even in the past few minutes it had dusted Danny's hoodie with white, and if given another few minutes it might pick back up to the storm that had rendered Amity Park helpless. The phantom stared for a moment, and the snow paused. (Ice core) was the only explanation it offered, and its eyes turned upwards in what Danny could only assume to be a smile.

"You did that," said Danny, who was a second slower to process, "How'd you - ? I didn't know you could do that - "

The phantom nodded slowly. (Usually, it's only for a few seconds at a time. Closer it is to the solstice, though, sometimes I get a little leeway. Longer nights or something like that. I wasn't gonna question it)

"Huh."

The phantom rose abruptly, turning back and offering one wispy hand to Danny. (Can I show you something?)

Danny took the hand and flinched. The sensation was like ice, not physically tangible but piercingly cold, and he was pulled up to his feet as well. "Where are we going?"

The phantom kept Danny's hand. It floated higher, pulling him off the ground with it; he yelped, wide eyes darting back up to the shadow in the air, and his grip tightened. (Don't let go, okay?)

Danny wouldn't dare. "What are you doing - ?"

The phantom was smiling again, but wouldn't answer him. They both ascended over the ice-white treetops, and all of a sudden the town opened up below them through a yellow-white haze. (You said you were lost) said the phantom, (didn't you? Lost and lonely, same as me. I wanted to help)

Danny was silent. His mind had all but ground to a halt - the first time he'd ever seen a ghost, and the ghost had just plucked him up off the ground with no effort whatsoever. I wanted to help, it said. Weren't spirits like that supposed to do the opposite?

The phantom turned back to the town beyond the cemetery. (There's houses over on that side) it said helpfully, pointing with its free hand, (you think one of them's yours?)

"Well, I - " Danny forced his mind back into processing again, once he was very certain he wouldn't fall. He kept the phantom's hand tightly in his own, knowing that was the only thing keeping him up, and finally cast a glance across rooftops and streets below. "No," he said, "They're not. Look, I. . ."

(Oh jeez this is too much, isn't it? I'm sorry)

"No it's not that - I mean, don't get me wrong, this wasn't exactly what I was expecting to be doing tonight, it's kinda out-there, but - "

(I'm so sorry I swear I just wanted to help)

"Hey wait - no don't go down yet - you really can see pretty far from up here, can't you," Danny scanned the streets below, hoping to spot someplace that was still open. The cold was really starting to get to him, especially up in the open air - he couldn't quit shivering, and his fingers and nose had gone all but numb. Even his lips had begun to resist movement, and he had to be careful to articulate when he spoke. "I came in from that way," he spotted the road the bus had taken when he'd been dropped off, and gestured vaguely downwards. "Don't suppose you know how far Amity Park is from here?"

(You're cold)

"Well, yeah," said Danny, "But I gotta get home - "

The phantom's eyes widened, and it shook its head. (Not like that! Oh, man, you're still kicking, you have to stay warm, I forgot I'm so sorry) the phantom descended, taking Danny down too, and they both landed at the side of the cemetery.

Danny shoved both hands back into his pockets, although they wouldn't warm up entirely on their own. At least the wind's not so bad down here, and you know where the town is. You'll have better luck than you will out here, anyhow.

The phantom was unblinking. (That was my fault. I should have remembered. You have to be careful - when you're alive, I mean. Stuff can happen, I wasn't even thinking about it - )

"Hey, don't freak out. I'll be fine. So it's snowing a little. Big deal."

(Yeah but I don't wanna see you freeze out here, not on account of me, anyhow, you know - )

"Wait," said Danny, and asked before he could stop himself, "Wait is that - that's how you - well, you know - isn't it?"

The phantom didn't answer. Its eyes slid pointedly away form Danny's, opting instead to stare through the snow-laden trees. The distant rumble of a street-plow came and went, and the snowfall slowly started up again.

Now you've gone and done it. Should have kept your mouth shut, idiot. "I'm sorry." He let his breath out all at once. "I guess I shouldn't have asked you that. Please don’t be mad."

(You're really far from home, aren't you?)

Danny hesitated, but then nodded. "Yeah. I am. I really screwed up this time. Look, no offense, I get that you wanted to help me out and all, but - I don't think this is something you can just fix, you know?"

(You're having troubles at home) said the phantom, (I think. That was what you said earlier, wasn't it? That’s why you came all the way here)

Danny nodded again. "Yeah. My parents have this stupid fight every year, and I said I wasn't gonna let it get to me this time but it did anyway. So of course like some kind of moron I thought maybe getting away from it all would have been just fine - "

(Well, you're the first moron I've talked to in a long time) said the phantom helpfully, (you can't be that bad)

Danny sighed. "Thanks. I guess."

(Besides, you don't have to be out here all by yourself either. I think we both kind of win, right?)

Danny frowned. "Not sure that's how it works? If I didn't run away then none of this - "

(Then you'd still be having a bad time, right? But just at home. And if you hadn't come out here then I'd still be having a bad time too. Like I said. We both kind of win)

"Well. I mean," Danny gave up. "Sure. Yeah."

(And you'd be sad if I left now, wouldn't you?)

"Yeah."

(Then I'm not going anywhere) said the phantom, and its eyes turned up again. (Consider yourself haunted)

Despite himself, and despite everything that had happened, everything he'd done, and that he was a mess standing at the edge of a graveyard in the snow with a ghost as his only companion a town or more away from home - despite it all, Danny laughed. Something in him released all at once; perhaps the coil of stress wound one tick too tight and snapped, or perhaps it was the realization that he wasn't on his own, not really, not so long as the phantom hung around, even if it couldn't help him on a tangible level. Haunted. It was so succinctly absurd, and so, so good to let everything else fall away. Before he fully realized he'd meant to, he'd reached over and taken the phantom's hand again. "Thanks. I guess I really needed that."

The phantom just smiled back. (You're really stuck with me now. How're you gonna get home otherwise? By yourself?)

Danny was somber again in an instant. "I don't know. Buses back to Amity don't start up again 'til morning. Phone's dead. Can't even ask anyone to come and pick me up."

(Well) the phantom turned back to the town beyond the trees. (Hm. Oh, hey, I wonder if some the gas stations are twenty-four hours? I think there's at least one. Maybe they'd have a phone you could borrow?)

"You think so?"

(Yeah. Come on. You thought flying was cool? Check this out) and without waiting for an answer it flew ahead, pulling him through snow and frozen trees and shrubs as if they didn't really exist. For the moment, they may as well not have existed, and the next thing Danny knew they'd come out in the back parking lot of what appeared to be a Denny's.

Danny turned back to the phantom. "What'd you do?"

(Shared) said the phantom, (thought it'd be faster than going around. Don't you think?)

"Yeah, but - " Danny paused, and then tried again: "I don't know, just - warn me next time? Phasing through solid objects isn't really as straightforward, you know?"

The phantom gave Danny what he assumed to be a half-hearted shrug. (Okay, but I think the place is a few blocks over from here)

Danny trotted ahead, following the sidewalk around the corner of the building and having a look across the front lot and down the road. "All I'm seeing is streetlights. I’m guessing you know this town better than me." He shot a look back to the phantom, expecting it to take the lead.

The phantom hesitated, but only for a moment. (The living don't really - you know, you don't see the dead wandering around most times, do you?)

"Wait, what're you getting at? You think I'm just gonna ditch you from here on out?"

(I'm just saying don't act all surprised) said the phantom. It was as if it was taking a deep breath; he materialized fully, finally allowing himself a face, and appeared in a simple jacket and black jeans. His eyes still carried their ethereal glint, but apart from that he appeared human - he shook his head briefly, sending his white hair flying, and then gave Danny a grin. "I get leeway, remember?"

"You're a showoff," said Danny, who had not known the phantom could manifest so clearly - so that's what his face looks like - and was not about to let him get off easy about it.

"What, I gotta go around looking like an oil slick all the time? Give a guy some credit, will you? Besides, you know what'd happen if people saw a shadow like me on the loose? They might call your parents. That's what."

Danny's gaze fell. "Right."

"C'mon," the phantom took Danny's hand as he passed, and led the way into the streets. Danny noticed, after a moment, that he was the only one leaving footprints behind - he also appeared to be the only one exuding clouds with every breath. That's because he's not breathing, stupid, he chided himself, duh. Still, something just seemed right about the phantom, and it wasn't only because it was the only other option to being on his own again.

For the life of him, though, he couldn't place the feeling.

The two of them stood in the parking lot outside the gas station. Sure enough, the lights inside were still on, and the sidewalk looked to have been shoveled fairly recently. That was probably for the best; the snow had gotten going in earnest, and Danny speculated it had probably caught up to them from Amity Park where the worst of it had been earlier. He trotted ahead, pausing with one hand on the door to turn back to the phantom. "You coming?"

"Yeah," said the phantom, "Just in time, too. You don't look so good. Told you you'd freeze."

Danny ignored that last comment, and ignored the numbness from his feet and the tips of his fingers, and pulled the door open. The single clerk behind the register looked bored, but it wasn't until Danny asked to borrow the phone that either he or the phantom were acknowledged at all. He took it, giving the clerk one of those awkward-thanks smiles, and took a deep breath.

You know you're gonna have to fess up, and you know it's probably Mom who's gonna answer.

Let her, if it means I can go home.

It only rang once; sure enough, it was his mother.

"Mom," said Danny, daring himself to keep his composure. Despite his best efforts, his voice splintered and he was crying. "Mom - look, I'm okay, I just - "

"I promise I'm fine"

"I know"

"Can you and Dad come get me"

"Please"

"No, I'm with a friend"

"Yeah"

"Okay"

"Hi, Dad"

"Yeah"

"Yeah, I'm okay"

"No"

"Okay"

"Love you too."

- - - -

"Phantom?"

The two of them sat on the curb, watching the snow and waiting for the Fenton RV to pull up. Danny's mother had said forty-five minutes; his father had promised fifteen.

"Yeah?"

Danny hesitated, knowing he probably wasn't going to get an answer he liked. "Don't suppose you'd wanna come back with me, would you?"

The phantom snorted. "You kidding? Your parents are ghosthunters, man. You said so. No offense, or maybe some offense, but like. Yikes."

"Yeah," said Danny quietly, "Thought so."

The phantom was silent for a moment, but then shifted to lean back on his hands. "You were right, though. Earlier."

"What?"

"When you asked how I died."

Danny turned to him, opened his mouth to protest - you shouldn't have to tell me if you don't want to - but the phantom put up a hand to keep him silent.

"It went pretty much how you think it did. Lemme tell you, dying really sucks. I don't know if it's like that for everybody, maybe I just got unlucky, but - I just didn't want you to end up like me, you know?"

"Hey - are you okay?"

The phantom turned skyward, doing his best to blink away the tears that dared to creep up into the corners of his eyes, but after a fruitless minute he swiped at them with the back of his wrist anyhow. "Look at this, you got me feeling stuff, I can't believe it. I'm almost as much of a wreck as you now."

"Hey," Danny protested halfheartedly, but knew there was little he could say in his own defense. He really had done it to himself; everything that had happened the whole evening had been more or less directly his own fault. That said, he was glad that the phantom had stuck with him. He wondered what might have happened if he'd been alone all night - no, he had a fairly good idea of what might have happened, and he didn't really want to find out for sure. Dying really sucks.

The phantom had recomposed himself, and stood as an excuse to stretch out. "Hey, s'that them?"

Danny followed the phantom's gaze - sure enough, a double pair of headlights had turned onto the road, visible even through the haze of snow. He rose to his feet, turning back to the phantom and giving him a final smile. "Thanks," he said, "for sticking with me. I guess I owe you one."

The phantom had his arms around Danny in an instant. The motion was on impulse; it took them both a second to realize what had happened, and a second after that for the phantom to feel Danny's arms around him in return.

"Don't forget about me, I mean it."

"I won't."

The headlights swerved into the lot, and the phantom faded into thin air. Danny was alone only for a moment before both of his parents burst out and immediately began to fuss. He let them; he knew he'd catch heat, but not until they got home, and he had until then to sort everything out.

I wanna see you again, he'd meant to say, but had been cut short, and now it was probably too late. He wondered, if he came back into town sometime, if the phantom would still be there. You think he's got anything better to do? said something in him, but that part was at war with the part that insisted why would he sit and wait around? just for you? aren't you a bit selfish to think that?

Was he, really?

- - - -

The phantom watched Danny go. Ghosthunters had sit ill with him since the living boy had mentioned them, and he knew he didn’t want to get involved. Who could blame him, really? He'd seen the kid off, and made sure he was alright. Now he could get back to. . .

. . . what, exactly?

Not much. That was what it amounted to. The phantom had, for most of the evening so far, been able to fend off the crushing loneliness of death. He was lucky - very lucky, considering that Danny hadn't fled at the sight of him, and luckier still that they'd gotten along. He should have counted it as a decent night. All had ended well.

The empty pit in his stomach, however, begged to differ.

Even if it had just been for one fleeting instant, just then, before he'd vanished into thin air so the hunters wouldn't have seen him, he'd felt alive again. Maybe it was the solid warmth of a living body, or maybe it was the assurance that, in that moment, he wasn't on his own.

Now Danny was gone, fading with the taillights of the RV as it turned a corner and disappeared altogether.

That pained him.

It pained him - now you're back to the usual, and isn't it horrible? - and it was too much. He burst into silent tears, alone and unseen in the parking lot of the only gas station in town that was still open. He'd never see Danny again.

Why didn't you go too?

He wished, beyond anything, that he could have gone, but he knew the hunters would have caught him if he'd dared show his face. He'd seen them coming, and he'd vanished before they'd gotten so much of a glimpse of him. Look at you. You let him slip through your fingers, and you know exactly why.

There were plenty of reasons why. Ghosthunters was only the first; I've never been out of town; finding him again would be such a long shot; everything I have is here; besides, maybe he'll come and say hi sometime; I don't even know how far it'll be.

Some small voice in his core grew sharp. You’re making excuses. You're just afraid to go. What's keeping you here?

That made the phantom pause. His grave had never been the most appealing place to hang out, but it was the only thing with his name on it (in theory, anyhow - a gang of vandals had seen to that once a few years back). What did he have left, when push came to shove?

Why didn't you go? You're just a scared kid, that's why. You thought you had it together, didn't you? Now you've missed your chance, and you get to go back to being alone. You did it to yourself.

You're a lot like him.

He'd turned down the only living being that had spoken to him in over a decade. How stupid was he? He wanted, more than anything, to take it back.

Quit making excuses.

He swiped the last of his tears away, and cast a glance skyward. Amity Park, Danny had mentioned. That must have been where he lived. The phantom had never been there before. In life, he hadn't traveled much.

Old habits die hard, I guess.

He ascended over the ice-covered trees and drifted for a moment in the air. From the height, he could see the town below, and he could see the cemetery where his grave and his dusty old carcass lay. Who needs that old thing, anyway, he thought, eyes tracing the smooth road carved out in white between the trees. I came in from that way, Danny said. It wasn't much to go on.

Wonder if I could fly all the way from here? Never done it. Might make it. Might not.

You never know.

This time of year - might get a little extra leeway.

#holiday truce #kiinotasha #Danny Phantom #fanfic

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let-it-raines · 5 years

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Catch Me If You Can (5/?)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

A/N: It’s been a day, my friends, and when it’s been a day I like to give you guys chapters earlier than I expected. But also because I’m sitting on chapters and want to get to the good stuff! Our favorite duo really start to interact from now on, so the slow burn you guys are feeling is speeding up!!!

As always, thanks to @resident-of-storybrooke❤️

Found on AO3: Beginning | Current

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Tag list: @royalswan @shey-starsfury @sals86 @iam2307 @ashley-knightingale @snowbellewells @karenfrommisthaven @skyewardolicitycloisdelena91 @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @emmas-storybook @ultimiflos @jamif @idristardis @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @tiganasummertree @wellhellotragic @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @captainsjedi @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera@jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @galaxyzxstark @qualitycoffeethings @thejollyroger-writer

-/-

“How hot is it in Texas right now?”

“Hotter than here, but not all that bad. Seventies, I think.”

“Well, that’s probably because that weird heat wave is over, and it’s back to being fifty degrees outside.”

“True,” Ruby sighs, pulling a dress out of Emma’s closet. “You should wear this dress. It makes your ass look fantastic.”

“No one sees my ass.” She walks over to Ruby and grabs the red dress anyways, folding it up since she knows that it won’t wrinkle. She pulls up the weather app on her phone, scrolling through the thirty cities she has saved, and finds the week’s forecast for Houston, seeing that the high is indeed mostly going to be mid-seventies. That’s good. That’s far better than it is when they have to travel during the summer. “Should I bring heels or embrace flats for the week?”

“Bring your nude pair.” Ruby chunks them at the bed, about two feet away from taking Emma’s eye out. “Oh, and the turquoise if you’re going to wear that green pencil skirt.”

“You just want to borrow them if we go out, don’t you?”

Ruby pulls her turquoise pumps out of her closet, which really needs to be organized but that’s a story for another time, and tosses them on the bed before she grabs several more shirts and pants for Emma. “You know me so well, even if we mostly go out in Texas simply to eat their food.”

“Ugh,” she groans just thinking about it. “If we’re going to do that, I need to bring looser clothing. I don’t want everyone to think I’m pregnant when it’s just a food baby.”

“I bet you everyone would think it’s Jones’s baby.”

Her eyes cut over to Ruby as she picks up her turquoise heels and places them on her striped chair. How can someone be both the worst and the best friend? “For that, I’m not bringing these heels.”

“You’re evil.”

“You shouldn’t be mean to me if you want to borrow my shoes.”

“Being mean is kind of in her wheelhouse,” Graham adds in as he pokes his head through her bedroom door, eyes glancing over the mess that’s currently happening. He’s totally judging. “Do you two realize that your flight is at six in the morning, and you’re up at two in the morning packing?”

“Do you realize that it’s two in the morning, and you have to take us to the airport at four?” Graham rolls his eyes before Ruby walks toward him and presses up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck and slide her lips over his. “Thank you for doing that, by the way.”

He presses down to kiss her once more. “You’re going to be gone for three days. I’m going to miss you.”

“Cheesy,” Emma grumbles, tossing a rolled-up sock at the back of Ruby’s head. They’ve really got to stop throwing clothes. She’s never going to be able to find anything. “Can’t you two go make out in your room or something?”

“I kind of like that idea.”

“Me too. Ems, pack the damn turquoise shoes and some spanx so that you can eat and people won’t think you’re having Jones’s baby.”

“Wait, what?” Graham mutters. “You’re having Jones’s baby?”

“No one is having anyone’s baby, and it better stay that way. Use protection.”

“Pack the shoes.”

“I still don’t understand what’s going on.”

“You’re not supposed to, babe,” Ruby laughs, backing Graham out of the room and pulling Emma’s door shut behind her.

Those two are ridiculous, and if she didn’t love them so much, living with them would be nearly impossible. Seriously.

Emma gets an hour of sleep after she finishes packing (thanks late night games and early morning flights), and she’s basically a zombie as she and Ruby load into the back of Graham’s squad car as he drives them to JFK. She knows that it takes awhile to get there, but she’s pretty sure that she slept the whole time because before she even realizes it, she and Ruby are checking into their flight at the kiosk and going through security. It’s the emptiest she’s ever seen the place, and she would know. She spends far too much time in airports for her job.

When the team travels, she travels. Most of the time. Some trips she doesn’t work, and it’s glorious.

It used to not be that way. She’d only travel for the games that were actually shown on ESPN or sometimes Fox, but now that ESPN has an entire online streaming service, she’s traveling nine games out of ten and working all home games. It’s exhausting, to a point, but she has a hell of a lot of travel miles and rewards programs that she gets to keep even though the network pays for her flights and hotels. Sometimes that means she gets six am flights when she doesn’t have to be in Houston until seven in the evening, but it’s not always that bad.

And one day she’s going to use those points to travel to Italy or something.

Pasta would be really good right now.

So would coffee, but if she has coffee, she won’t sleep on the plane. And sleeping on the plane is kind of important if she wants to not look like a zombie tonight. Her face may look like a zombie, but at least her ass will look great.

She doesn’t want anyone to comment on the state of her ass. She’s the only one allowed to do that.

Okay, she’s lost her mind.

-/-

The Yankees win their sixth game of the season that night.

She eats the best barbecue sandwich she’s ever had, and a clip of her eating ends up on Sports Center.

Sometimes she wonders if people actually watch baseball for the game or if they simply watch because there’s always something weird going on in the crowd.

The sandwich was worth it.

-/-

Emma’s feet hit against the treadmill as Queen blares in her headphones and a tennis match in Monte Carlo plays on the television in front of her, Rafael Nadal sliding back and forth on the clay as he absolutely dominates his opponent. If every athlete was as good as Rafa is on clay, they’d all be dominant, but that’s likely a story for another day.

She’s got twenty-three minutes left on her run, especially since she’s going at a slow pace with a slight incline, but she can already feel the incline starting to kill her, her calves burning the slightest bit with each step that she takes. Her face is red, her hairline slicked back with sweat, and she can already tell that getting her sports bra off is going to be an impossible task. She gets that it’s for the support and all, but there should really be an easier way for her to free her boobs from their confines.

Free the boob.

Unless she’s running or walking down stairs or doing anything more than some light walking.

Her phone buzzes on the machine, and the man on the treadmill looks over at her like he’s annoyed by the fact that her phone made some kind of noise. It’s not her fault that he didn’t bring any headphones, and really, if he’s so bothered by her, he can move two treadmills down. This hotel gym is plenty big enough.

Ruth: I saw you eating a sandwich on TV last night! That’s too funny!

Ruth: I hope you’re having fun!

Ruth: I miss you, sweetie!!!

For Ruth to be sixty-five, she has a fantastic grip on technology. She knows that it’s because she and David have taught her how to text and find clips of their segments and articles online, but still. She knows how to use emojis and gifs and even has an Instagram, which is only slightly terrifying most of the time. But she knows it’s simply to keep up with she and David’s lives since they don’t always tell her everything.

Okay, that’s mostly her.

But David has a much better relationship with Ruth, which makes sense considering she’s his mother. She’s Emma’s…quasi mother. She’s never been too sure how to go about it. Calling David her brother is much easier than calling Ruth her mom, and she knows it’s because the word mom has more heavy meaning behind it.

Emma: It was a good sandwich! Only a little time for fun since I’m here for work. I miss you too!

Ruth: There’s always time for fun!

Ruth: David and MM are driving up to visit me next weekend for the holidays. Are you coming too?

Emma: I don’t get vacation days like David does, so I’ll be in LA. I wish I could.

Her music stops between songs, and she hears the roar of the crowd on the television, seeing that the match just ended, and her treadmill starts to slow down, the time ticking down past five minutes so that it’s time for her to cool down with a slow walk while she keeps texting Ruth about the fact that she’s working over Easter weekend. She pretty much doesn’t have days off, except for days the team has off, until the season is over in October. Or early November. It depends. And then she’s back working in the office writing articles and doing prep work and occasionally having to suffer through covering basketball.

Bills must be paid, but at what cost to her having to listen to sneakers squeaking?

Ruth never seems to understand that because she thinks that she and David have the same job even though David has never once been on camera. He’s behind the scenes all the way.

When her treadmill time officially runs out, she steps off and gathers her things before finding a towel to wipe down the handles from where she touched them. Angry man is still eyeing her as she cleans up, and she seriously hopes that he is not going to be there tomorrow.

If he is, maybe he’ll be happier.

She doubts it.

He seems to just be one of those people who is particularly unpleasant all the time.

Sweat sticks to her skin as she walks through the hotel hallways, casually airing out her tank top and wiping sweat back into her hair to get it off of her face, and she very nearly walks up the stairs to go back to she and Ruby’s room when she sees people milling around the dining room with breakfast on their plates.

Breakfast would be good.

Mostly water. And coffee. She’s not entirely sure if she’s recovered from her lack of sleep yesterday, which made her question her sanity when her alarm went off for the gym this morning, but she knew if she didn’t work out then, she wouldn’t work out at all. And she needs that push of adrenaline and endorphins.

Grabbing a plate from the buffet line, she walks through and fills her plate with fruit and scrambled eggs, even if she knows they’re from a bag and not a shell, and a half of a waffle from the waffle maker. She always loves when they have those at hotels. Good continental breakfasts are her jam…especially if they have jam.

“Got enough toppings there?”

Emma nearly drops her plate when she hears his voice, and when she twists her head to the side, she sees Killian Jones standing next to her, his own plate full of food in his hand. Seriously. Why is she always running into him when she’s eating?

And sweaty.

“Not enough if you ask me.”

He adjusts his hat, a Vanderbilt one that is very obviously a decade old. “I was asking you.”

“I like toppings,” she sighs, putting some more fruit onto her waffle before grabbing the whipped cream can and spraying some of it onto her food. Her workout is yelling at her for this. “What’s the point of a waffle if you’re not going to load it down with toppings?”

“I’m more of a pancake man myself.” He reaches into the buffet and grabs a yogurt, which is definitely not a waffle or pancake. “But considering I’m playing tonight, I’m supposed to be watching what I eat.”

“You have an entire plate of eggs.”

“Protein, Swan, protein. You would know all about that with all that barbecue you ate last night.”

Just let her sink into a hole right now and never come back up. The internet is ruining her life.

“Weren’t you supposed to be tracking Roseman’s pitches last night or something?”

She turns on her heel and walks away from the buffet to a table, knowing that Killian is walking behind her. They have the weirdest relationship. It doesn’t even feel right to call it that, but they’re somewhere between a working relationship and reluctant friends, and the fact that he’s placing his plate down on the table across from hers makes her lean more toward reluctant friends who see each other occasionally enough to have a bit of a rapport.

Her life gets weirder every day.

Killian Jones has one brave set of balls.

Baseball, testicles, whatever. Both work. At least, she thinks.

“You can eat right after you work out?” he questions, twisting the knob on one coffee machine while she does it with the other, the promise of caffeine already invigorating her.

“How do you know I was working out?”

He raises a brow before his eyes look over her, lingering a second too long at her breasts, before a slow smile creeps from one side of his lips to another that has her stomach twisting inside. “Well, it’s not because of your outfit. People dress more like they’re working out when they’re not every day, but the sweat still soaked into your clothes and in your hair are kind of a dead giveaway. Your face is flushed as well.”

“Observant.”

“I try, but it’s easy when you’re an open book.”

Totally not acknowledging that one.

She twists the knob on the machine and reaches over for the hazelnut creamer while Killian simply puts the top on his. He drinks black coffee? That’s disgusting. “Black coffee? Do you not have taste buds?”

He shrugs. “I don’t like to drink my calories. You want a water?”

She nods her head, and he grabs two bottles before following her to sit back down at her booth like it’s totally normal for them to be sharing a meal together. They’ve done it before, but that’s because she was working with him. It was not because they’re staying at the same hotel and happened to run into each other at the buffet.

Weird.

But she’s not about to be bitchy and ask him to leave when she has no reason to other than her own reluctance to talk to people before noon.

They sit in semi-awkward silence as they work through their plates. She definitely overloaded her waffle, but she would never admit that after earlier. That would be admitting defeat, and she doesn’t take too kindly to admitting defeat. Killian eats at lightning speed, scarfing down eggs and sausage, his yogurt untouched, and she wonders what it must be like to be a professional athlete and eat more than the average human being, even if it’s not all good food like pizza and onion rings and loaded down waffles filled with chocolate chips.

Her phone buzzes on the table, and she leans over to read the text from Ruth still trying to convince her to come home for the weekend when she’s already explained that she cannot.

“Boyfriend?”

“Huh?” she hums, texting a message before looking up and seeing Killian staring down at her, his eyes shaded under his cap. She’s so distracted by the fact that he asked her if she was talking to her boyfriend that she doesn’t pay attention to her answer. “Oh, no boyfriend. It’s my…um, quasi mom.”

“Quasi mom?”

Shit. She should have just said Mom. Maybe she’s a little flustered by all of this.

“She was my foster mom,” Emma explains, stuffing some eggs into her own mouth to give her some more time to talk, “when I was a teenager, but we’re still in touch because her son, David, is kind of like this big brother to me. I work with him and am close to his wife and kid and all.”

That was word vomit that she should not have shared. That is not information that she should just give out, and yet here she is. Obviously, all of the blood hasn’t returned to her brain since her run. Hopefully it’ll all come back soon so she can stop looking like an idiot with a messed up past who shares too much at a breakfast.

“David Nolan, right?”

“Y-yeah. How do you know that?”

He shrugs his right shoulder before taking another forkful of eggs, chewing and smiling in a way that reminds her of that scene in Thor where Chris Hemsworth is in the diner and throws the mug down asking for another one. Why the hell did they dye his eyebrows and his beard in that movie? That was a mistake.

“Ariel, my manager, is super hands on with me. She’s talkative, like extremely, and she shares all kinds of information that I never need to know. So, I’ve heard a bunch of random shit that I literally never need to know about. David sends her a hell of a lot of emails that I get forwarded.”

“So, do you just know my entire life story then?”

“If you’re entire life story involves you liking pretzels and waffles, and being asked out by a jackass on live television, then yeah.”

She barks out a laugh, her lips curving upward, and reaches down to take a sip of her coffee. “I mean, that’s it. There’s nothing else to know about me.”

“You sure about that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The smile on his lips fall into a straight line, his gaze intense, and he lifts the bill of his hat up before adjusting it back down. “Perhaps I would.”

“So, nosy,” she starts, still a little annoyed that he asked if she had a boyfriend and most definitely trying to lighten the conversation up again, “I’m going to be very self-indulgent and ask if you liked your segment. I want a more truthful answer than the one I got in the hallway.”

His lips curve up, pretty much taking up his entire face, and she can see the crinkle of his eyes as his long lashes land on his cheeks before opening back up to show his baby blues. Damn his eyes are blue. How is that even possible? Maybe they’re contacts or something.

No, that would be ridiculous.

“I freaking loved it. I mean, it was great. It was so simple, you know? You didn’t try to create some other angle, didn’t try to paint me as anything other than a normal guy. I really appreciate that. You have no idea,” he chuckles, reaching up to scratch beneath his ear. Is he nervous? Why the hell is he nervous? “I saw afterward, your cohost, he was a bit of a dick, wasn’t he? I know we talked about it a bit, but it seems like you just…well, it seems like the shit show is never ending for you.”

That is – that is not what she was expecting at all. She figured his apology was a one and done and that she’d never hear about it again.

“With my friends,” she starts, tapping her nail against the table, “I don’t mind. It’s funny. It’s something we can joke about, that I, myself, joke about, but when it happens in my professional life, it pisses me off. So many men have seen me as a joke in the past, have tried to tear me down that way, and it’s not something I like having to deal with now. I mean, it’s not like I can go off on them. That’s a great way for me to lose my job because I’m no longer,” she holds her fingers up and does air quotes, “likable.”

Killian lets out a low whistle as her heart hammers in her chest, her annoyance at this whole thing making her cheeks heat. It’s all so dumb, and really, she should hate him for it. She doesn’t though. She’s not always his biggest fan, but he apologized and obviously feels actual remorse. How was he supposed to know it would be like this?

And if she knows all of this to be true, why does she still get slightly irked by him sometimes?

Is that just because she’s so damn stubborn herself?

“Is there anything I can do to make it better for you? I mean, I put you into this situation. The very least I can do is try to get you out of it.”

“Nah, there’s nothing you can do more than treat me like a professional and go on as if you didn’t make an ass out of the both of us with millions of people watching.”

“I think I can do that. However I can’t promise not to keep making an ass out of myself though. My brother tells me it’s my natural state of being.”

“Your brother sounds like a smart man.”

“He likes to think so. His patients sure as hell hopes that he is.”

“I mean, I would hope so. Does he get to come to a lot of games?”

“He and Elsa and the girls try to make it to some of them, but it usually depends on if Liam is on call or if the game is too late, so it interferes with the girls’ bedtimes and school. But no matter what I always have a string of texts waiting for me afterwards.”

“They sound great. Your nieces are so cute. Like, adorable. When you posted that photo of the two of them wearing your jersey, my heart melted. That was cute, twenty-nine.”

“Twenty-nine?”

“Your number,” she says slowly, looking him over.

“Aye, I know. It’s just that I’m not used to being called that.”

“Oh, sorry.” She covers her mouth and takes a sip of her coffee. She’s never going to finish her food if they keep talking like this. “I call most of you guys by your numbers half the time. It’s faster, sometimes, for our stat-keepers. It’s a force of habit from back before the Yankees had names on their jerseys.”

“I like it,” he smiles. “You ever play any sports?”

“Nothing official. Why?”

“Just looking to see if you have a number I can call you, love.”

“Ooh, for a second I thought you were going to ask for my number, so that was a nice save.”

“Well, I mean, I could,” he shrugs, flashing that winning smile again.

“Not going to happen, twenty-nine.”

“Damn, I thought I’d stumbled myself into something. I guess that’s strike two for me.”

“Do you always speak in baseball puns?”

“Says the woman who made a joke about oral sex using a baseball pun.”

“Never claimed that I didn’t use them. I’m a fan of a good pun. If you can make it a clever innuendo, all the better.”

“I do love a good innuendo.”

“Yeah, I can tell with the whole tall, dark, and broody thing that you’ve got going on half the time before you whip out a smirk and do that thing with your eyebrows.”

“Why, Swan,” he sighs, waggling those damn eyebrows, “have you been watching me?”

“It’s literally my job.” He does his eyebrows again, and she flicks an apple chunk at him. “Shut it, twenty-nine.”

They sit in the booth and talk, the both of them going through two cups of coffee, before Killian gets a call that he needs to be on the bus to Minute Maid Park, which they both agree is an awful name for a stadium. It’s on the tip of her tongue to start naming off other awful names and major sponsors, but she doesn’t, holding that back as he gathers their plates and walks over to put them all in the bin, his mind seemingly having switched from casual conversation to baseball. She wonders how often he does something like that, just turning everything off to focus on his job.

She can do the same.

“So, Swan,” he sighs as they both walk toward the lobby, Killian to get on the bus and for her to walk toward the elevators, “you going to be around to interview me tonight when I walk off the field?”

“Only if my producer thinks that we need an interview from you.”

“Does this mean I need to play a damn good game?”

“Or a really bad one.”

“I’ll try for one of those.”

“Okay,” she laughs, backing away from him as she sees Scarlet and Fisher walk down into the lobby, “break a leg then.”

He raises a brow. “I’m not sure if that works in sports.”

“Guess you’ll be the first to try it out.”

Emma raises her hand to wave to him, before turning on her heel and walking toward the elevator, her mind trying to piece together all of the elements of her morning while her heart keeps beating like she’s still on the treadmill and not like she’s been sitting in a booth eating for the past two hours.

What the hell just happened?

When she gets back to her room, she quietly opens the door, not knowing if Ruby is awake or not yet, but as soon as she’s inside the room she sees Ruby sitting on the floor with her laptop in front of her with some kind of hair tutorial video on the screen. And whatever it is, Ruby is not succeeding at it, which is pretty much an impossibility with how good Ruby is with hair.

“What’d you do? Run to Manhattan and back? You’ve been gone for forever.”

Putting her phone and hotel key down on the dresser, she slides down onto the floor to sit with Ruby. Her legs are starting to ache, and she desperately needs a shower. She got a look at herself in the mirror in the elevator, and damn does she look rough.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Well, I woke up when you got up because you’re not quiet,” she huffs, tugging at her braid, “and then I woke up an hour ago. You’ve been gone for, like, three hours.”

“I spent a long time at the gym.” That’s not a lie, not really, but it’s not exactly the full truth. She’s not sure why she’s not being honest with Ruby, but it’s…it’s just what her brain has apparently decided on. That breakfast didn’t mean anything, right? So why would she hide it? Probably so no more jokes will be made about them. Yeah, that’s it. That has to be it. “And then I ate breakfast.”

“And you didn’t bring me anything?”

“Not supposed to take the food out of the restaurant area.”

“You could have stolen a banana.”

“Sorry?”

Ruby groans, twists her hair into another braid as the video ends, and then closes her laptop before looking at her, her eyes scanning over her outfit. “Let’s go get something from a café or something. What was that place we went to last time we were here?”

“Snooze, maybe?”

“Yes,” she hums, falling back against the floor before she very obviously remembers her slightly okay braided hair, “let’s go there.”

“I just ate, Rubes.”

“You can keep me company while I eat, and then we’ll go shopping before we have to come back and get ready for work.”

“Can I at least take a shower first?”

“I would prefer if you didn’t smell, so yeah.”

Emma reaches forward and slaps Ruby’s shoulder before getting up. “You’re the worst.”

“But I’m your best friend.”

“Unfortunately.”

“No, very fortunately.”

“Will you do my hair for tonight’s game?” she asks as she strips out of her tank top, sweat having practically dried it to her skin.

“If you let me wear your turquoise pumps.”

“You were going to wear them anyways.”

“Semantics.” Ruby waves her away. “Go take a shower. I’m starving, and I will absolutely perish if I don’t have food in my stomach in the next hour.”

#catch me if you can #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan #captain swan fic

75 notes · View notes

wyntertimes-blog · 5 years

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* Getting loose with Ivanka and Jay Kay

* The secret portrait of Karren Brady

* PLUS: Cock rings on the 6 O'Clock News

>> Strange times <<The poll winners' party

It probably won't surprise you to learn that champagne corks were popping at 10pm prompt at the Baby Shard on Thursday night, as the Times and the Sun celebrated the projected result of the exit poll.

It's also unlikely to surprise you to learn that Rupert Murdoch, Rebekah Brooks, Les Hinton and all the usual News UK suspects were there too, getting their fourth and fifth trolleys of booze brought in to the office by the time Blyth Valley announced.

The one thing that might surprise you though is that in among the revellers was... Cate Blanchett.This year's series of Love Island has taken three of the top ten spots in Ofcom's list of most complained-about shows of 2019.

>> Straight shooter <<Randy Andy makes 'em standy

It's been a bruising few weeks for Prince Andrew since his cataclysmic interview with Emily Maitlis – but he's probably brimming over with remorse and humility now, right?

Erm.

Earlier this month, Handsy Andy went on another of his (straightforward) shooting weekends. At breakfast one morning, everyone else in the party was sat quietly reading the papers when Andy came into the room.

As no-one stood up for him when he entered, he bellowed "OH HO HO! LET'S TRY THAT AGAIN, SHALL WE?" Then walked out of the room and re-entered, so that everyone could oblige him.There's a This Morning team WhatsApp group entitled "We Hate Phillip".

>> Big Questions <<Who's asking what this week?

What could have caused the Mail to pull a recent exclusive of theirs about a French masseuse meeting with Prince Andrew at Buckingham Palace back in 2000? The story made the paper's front page at the end of November but, save for a report of the Mail's report in the New York Post, there's no trace of it online now.If you subscribe to Popbitch, chances are your internet search history is something you'd rather was kept private. Protect yourself online (plus bypass digital censorship) by using a VPN. CyberGhost is currently offering Popbitch readers a 79% discount on its 18 month plan, which protects up to seven devices, for just £2.15 a month.

[Find out more here]

>> Westwood ho <<Getting loose with Ivanka

Before she became the accomplished businesswoman and occasional threat to global security that she is today, Ivanka Trump had teenage ambitions of becoming a fashion model.

Thanks to her family connections, she was seen for a number of jobs in the late 90s and became a bit of a favourite of Vivienne Westwood. Westwood's team used to make a point of letting the models pick the music they put on in the studio as a way of helping them to relax and feel comfortable on a shoot.

Ivanka's choice of music, every single time? Jamiroquai. Which she would then sing along to.

Peanut from the Kaiser Chiefs is preparing to run his 100th park run over the Christmas holidays.

>> Bah humbug <<More drama at the BBC

The BBC is going heavy on trailing their version of A Christmas Carol this year, making a big song and dance out of the fact it stars Guy Pearce, is written by Peaky Blinders' Steven Knight and has been exec produced by Tom Hardy. One person who's been a little left out in the cold though is director Nick Murphy.

Poor Nick was so miffed that the BBC didn't invite him to take part in a special Q&A event about the show that he ended up turning up anyway to rage at the head of BBC Drama there. His ire hasn't just been reserved for TV execs either as he's started taking pot shots at Tom Hardy on Twitter too, claiming that the catering department was more involved in production than Hardy.

There may be some lingering resentment there, as Hardy was set to star in A Christmas Carol (as well as produce) until he suddenly decided to bail out. But if you ask us, Nick, you had a lucky escape.

On set at Hardy and Knight's previous BBC1 collab, Taboo, crew members reported that Hardy wasn't shy about staying in character, stark-bollock naked, for much of the time. And we can only imagine what it would have been like trying to direct with the Ghost of Christmas Past's dick and balls wafting all around.

Nick Cave Watch: Everyone's favourite goth dad was spotted at an Elton John concert in Melbourne this week.

>> Picture this <<More corporate creepiness

One of Jeffrey Epstein's former employees claims that Epstein kept a 6ft portrait of his mysterious 'fixer' Ghislaine Maxwell above the pool in his sprawling New Mexico mansion. Not just any old portrait though. One of her naked and "posing provocatively".

He wouldn't be the first icky businessman to have had a life-size nudey portrait of a close associate on their wall though. West Ham's porn-purveying chairman, David Sullivan, was once well known in the football world for having a huge painting hung in his basement office.

Of his now Vice-Chairman at West Ham FC, Dame Karren Brady.Andy Coulson has been advised by friends that having his own name in his new PR firm (Coulson Partners) is enough to stop most major organisations from hiring them. So far it's advice that he (and his ego) seem unwilling to take.

>> Shaky casting <<Merry Christmas everyone!

This year's bleak seasonal murder drama, Responsible Child (based on the real life story of a 14 year-old killer who was tried as an adult and jailed) has been getting rave reviews.

Whether it was the shocking nature of the story, or the impressive performance of the child actor who inhabited the role, we couldn't tell you, but for some reason most of the reviews have failed to mention the most important thing about the production.

The kid who plays the murderer is the grandson of Shakin' Stevens.

This week's Media Masters podcast is a chat with historian and broadcaster David Starkey. His outspoken, unforgiving style and trenchant opinions have earned him a reputation as being "the rudest man in Britain". In this in-depth interview he explains the impact it's had over his career.

[Listen/Download on Media Masters]

>> One love <<The race for Xmas No.1

Now that The X Factor is an utterly spent force, and December streaming is dominated by seasonal classics, the annual race for Christmas No.1 has become a much more unpredictable beast.

Re-releases are subjected to permanent ACR restrictions ('Accelerated Chart Ratio') with streaming, which basically means that old, established classics have to generate twice the number of streams as new tracks in order to compete. (Without this, three of the top four last Friday would have been Mariah Carey, Wham! and The Pogues.)

So who's in the running this year? There's another tedious song about sausage rolls from Ladbaby (hideous; but for a good cause). There's the inevitable Ed Sheeran (this year on Stormzy's record). And of course, there's the now traditional Facebook campaign choice.

Facebook campaigns are a bit of a lost cause but it has to be said: of all the songs that the British public could have picked to champion this year, Jarvis Cocker's "(Cunts Are Still) Running The World", is a pretty good one.

[Join the campaign]

REO Speedwagon's original of Can't Fight This Feeling has been streamed more than Bastille's John Lewis ad cover since its release in mid-November.

>> Electile dysfunction <<Another cock up on the Beeb

On election day, there are very strict rules in the UK which forbid news organisations from discussing politics until polling is closed. Which means that news teams have to ignore the biggest story of the day and compile their news bulletins from whatever innocuous filler they can drum up instead.

As part of their non-political Six O'Clock News broadcast last Thursday, BBC1 chose to air an item about the postal service and people sending tiny items in oversized parcels. Alas, it seems there was a very good reason that the Six O'Clock News hadn't touched that story previously.

One of the parcels that was prominently displayed as part of the pre-watershed segment clearly showed a cock ring.Nominative Determinism of the Week: The Senior doorkeeper of the House of Commons... Phil Howse!

>> 2019: The Annual <<A last little gift from us

That's almost it for another year. We've got a couple of special issues to send out between now and 2020, so we'll be back in your inboxes before the New Year. But if you want to sink your teeth into some more Popbitch material over the Christmas holidays, then download our 2019 annual.

It's totally free, and features some of our favourite stories of the year. Print it off at work! Use it as last-minute wrapping paper! Give a copy to your most corruptible niece or nephew!

[Get it here]

And if you enjoy it – or have enjoyed any of the last 52 weeks of Popbitch – and feel like tossing a few quid into our Santa hat for a Christmas pint then we'd be ever so grateful.

[Donate here]

LAST CHANCE BEFORE XMAS: Anyone who donates £10 or more to this year's fundraiser is eligible to download a special play-at-home edition of the Popbitch Popquiz. We'll email you a digital pack with all the answer sheets, question packs and puzzle pages you need to host your own quiz.

[Donate to Popbitch here]

>> Hmmms <<Cats, dogs, Muppets

Rowan Atkinson deepfaked Dior advert

[Ready to lose your libido?]

The reviews of Cats are restoring our faith and trust in journalism

[Read on Prospect]

Picture of dogs in mid-air, catching frisbees

[Cute: what more do you want?]

Need to stock up on wine before the holidays kick off? Naked Wines is offering Popbitch readers the chance to get a case of six sumptuous bottles, plus free delivery, for just £19.99.

[Get your orders in soon!]

What do you get for the man who has everything?

[Try an annual Wank-Pass]

40 years since the Muppets/John Denver Christmas special

[Watch on YouTube]

A crash course in the 100 most memorable memes of the decade

[Read on BuzzFeed]

The real life, bricks-and-mortar Popbitch Popquiz will return in January. Don't let dry January stop you having any fun. Join us at Smiths of Smithfield for another seven rounds of trivia, music and smut with our host, Tom Webb!

[Tuesday 14th January]

[Tuesday 28th January]

Thanks to: JM, bunkle, CA, JC, Party_B, ST, T, JM, BB, CA, RT, MC, bobbi_fleckmann, EC, intheissynoho, MC, AM

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lilithnewzealand · 5 years

Text

Outlasting the darkness: lessons of six Scottish winters

A view towards the Isle of Mull from its neighbor island, Kerrera--spring

I begin these winter musings in the final weeks of the American summer. Light is waning, and we splash one last time in the magnificent lake, pretending that the golden heat of this muggy, molten season will live on forever. In reality, the earth in its tilted run is already siphoning the minutes off the days. We can no longer reliably plan late evening BBQs around our garden’s shady oak tree, for it will already be dark by 7pm in these last weeks of August. Suddenly, we’re careening into the hectic, school-filled days of early September. One or two punctilious neighbors have already mutinously exchanged flip-flop door wreaths for pumpkins and gourds. I know that in the weeks to come, a veritable sea of hay bales and potted autumnal mums will sprout up in pleasant but unoriginal beatification of this dying season.

Chrysanthemums seem seductive envoys of death, cultivated to bloom only in hues mirroring those of a mature leaf’s swan song—pear-like yellows, burnt oranges, reds umbers, and even crackling browns. Flowers that are unwelcome and doer in the heady exuberance of spring find themselves the befitting adornment of atrophy and waning. Festive gourds, Halloween treats, and crisply weathered hayrides ease us like a conciliatory lullaby into the season that flows towards the utter darkness of the northern hemisphere’s agonizing winter solstice.

I will admit that It is not beyond me to pray, to beseech, to quietly plea for something as elementary as winter sun. Just as I pray quirky prayers that as a Western populace we’d forgo ease and profit for truly earth-honoring, nutrient rich, non-carenogenic farming, or that God would bring suffering children out from pain and fear this night, or for a friend who’s mother no longer lives, so I whisper this prayer for the mercy of winter light. I lift my voice in an entreaty that as the icy air stings our braced, pale faces, and layers panoply our bodies, that the far off winter sun with its weakened winter force would reign over our sky.

I come to these prayers with memories of winter’s capacity for mental woundedness. For six long seasons, I lived as a young adult through the insanity inducing darkness of west coast Scotland’s seemingly amaranthine, sodden winters. While before my travels I had known in theory that places such as Finland, Alaska, and Russia endured a departed sun for seasons together, I was wholly unprepared for the true, if somewhat functional insanity human beings endure when caught in the grip of a dark, far north winter. I had come to a country whose springs and summers produced some of the most stunning landscapes on earth, but whose winters’ lightlessness and wet stung the equilibrium of every cogent citizen. At ten steps beyond cozy indoor lounging, and peaceful snow-filled Saturdays, winter in the Scottish city I’d called home was, in my experience, something to survive, like an ancient, enveloping, heavy, returning foe. This is my small tale of everyday endurance.

When I left east coast America for Glasgow, Scotland in 2005 as an energetic, adventure-seeking twenty-two year old graduate student, I only vaguely considered British lore of generally omniscient rain and mist. If tea and scones accompanied that promised rain, I felt equal to its challenge. After all, I was no stranger to varieties of weather. We of the American Northeast gloried in the wonder of nature’s four faces, and cherished each one’s splendor.

Not we the soft, milk toast citizens of mild Florida, with its perpetual clemency like the slog of a meteorological purgatory, never proceeding from heaven into hell, or fleeing hell into the promise to heaven (apart from those apocalyptic moments of hurricane decimation, to be fair!). Nor were we the unfathomable folk who think it prudent to nurture community so far north as to warrant cars block heaters and homes with double heating systems. Surely a routine -30 F was nature’s indication, to western folk at least, that such landscapes as Alaska or Manitoba were not intended for human flourishing!

For all the variety of season, one reasonable constant was sunshine. From fifteen hours of committed, humid sunlight in the height of a suburban Philadelphia summer to a mere, miserable nine hours mid-December, with sunsets slipping down by 4.36pm instead of summer’s 8.32pm, the sun still at least shone weakly and cruelly in winter. How different it all was just across the pond where dramatic lochs lay and bagpipers piped.

In the beginning, my new young adult life in the art-loving, gritty, dually medieval and Victorian city of Glasgow proved mostly splendid. The beauty of nearby Hebridean islands, hill walking, and Harry Potteresque Edinburgh all soothed the longing I’d followed for vivid, three-dimensional encounter with everything I’d seen on the countless BBC murder mysteries and Jane Austen adaptions. With ceilidhs to dance, coffee shops to visit, curry to discover, and accents to unpack, the insidious impact of a profound lack of vitamin D3 upon my skin and in my body went under my radar. My mind perhaps registered the lack of sun, but only to complain or “winge” of its inconvenience, as the Scots would say. Surely, the November sky was darker than I’d ever known, but there was a jolly Burns night feast to attend, and a grotesque Haggis to address and devour.

Loch Katrine, July

Soon, alongside studies, I had found work at an inner city hotel’s vivacious restaurant. The job stretched my world from church and post-graduate university to the bustling business district of that medieval city. Working the evening shift at the flashy five-star hotel’s eatery, I saw business executives live in rooms week-to-week as their veritable second home, while lush, pleasure-seeking weekend holiday makers shifted the energy to indulgence come weekends. Often, I’d wake from a drug-like sleep the next afternoon in recovery from a previous night’s early morning finish. Weary from consecutive hours of cultivating restaurant elegance on the ground floor, while then frantically couriering steaming room service to more private, weary, or work burdened guests on upper floors, we topped long evenings with free beers and huge communal plates of greasy chips in the wee hours. Night after night, we sat like those participating in a greasy, ritualistic, pagan Scottish communion, where no one but me remembered Jesus’ body and blood.

As the sun glowed a very muted gray buzz across the daytime sky, I’d then half glimpse two hours of cloudy half-light before diving back into the murky cave of our sophisticated but windowless hotel restaurant. Here, I served Scottish rack of lamb to the lonely Welsh businessman, or waited upon the elderly far north Scot who kept the chefs in their windowless aluminum kitchen interested in life by routinely ordering the “special” of the day, chased down by an elegant but heavy triple Laphroig. We’d watch this distinguished man canter very intentionally, like a lad pulled over for his sobriety test, back across the street to the more budget hotel where he slept off this gourmet evening, ready for the following day’s to work on Scottish Educational databases.

When I’d dart out to the wide atrium bar for a diner’s wine or beer in winter, not a spot of sunlight could be seen after 3.30pm, despite the 25 foot floor-to-ceiling windows that invited every ray of lingering sun. Blackness framed the football (soccer!) fans zealously bedecked in their ribald sporting colors, marching drunkenly through the streets to and from pubs screening their games. Their glamor and serious fervor was like a shout of resolve against the depressing dimness.

As I raced along hotel corridors with my dented aluminum room service trolley and my tender, undying hopes of a small cash tip, I’d consume any glimpses of light or sky in passing windows. The mournful beauty of gulls swooping in the inky night’s electric semi-glow is my salient memory of visual grace on these long roomservice patrols along unrelieved gray corridors. Arriving at the penthouse suite on such a preternaturally shaded evening, burdened with the happy, hot, succulent roast chicken for Tony Bennett or hot chocolate and scrambled eggs for Jermaine Jackson and his shy, Caucasian girlfriend, I would sometimes pity the confusion I imagined these grand American stars must feel in our dark cityscape. Why would a civilization choose to stay and inhabit such a gritty and preternaturally dark island? On the surface of things, our commitment to this dim, soggy winter space seemed bewildering and foolishly patriotic.

Wrapped in the stalwart blanket of Scottish pride, Scots rarely discussed why they stayed at all, or how they survived. A tale of explanation that I once read was that in former generations the peoples occupying the coastal lands had found the atmospheric shoreline and islands habitable by aid of their vitamin D3 rich fish, seaweed, and cod liver oils. These they kept in a vat of fermenting sea fruits near the door of their mud-made huts. Oozing the invaluable nectar D3–liquid sunlight in food form--these earlier chiefs and clanspeople weathered the darkness abetted by foodstocks most natural to human survival in their particular climate. Did some of this impulse survive in the English and Scottish default to fish and chips on any possible occasion? In America, we grab burgers or sushi on the run. In Scotland, folk did a wee nip doon to the chippie, perhaps in an unconscious genetic compulsion back towards the fish liver oil origins enabling their earlier mental survival.

Modern-day Scotland offered not so much a supplemental strategy, as a mission of pitiable smothering —endurance through camaraderie and pub life. In short, we drank the winter away. The prevalence of alcohol, clubbing, and more alcohol, to forget or enliven the threatening, consuming darkness was farught reality. This turn to the wine, the jack and cokes, the gin and tonics, and what became gallons of hard cider was followed, inevitably, by pursuit of deliciously repulsive fried food. A vivid memory of a winter’s evening during my university years in Glasgow was standing with friends in a grease-filled chip shop at 3 am, where a sober, level-headed, but smirking shop owner in turban and mustache served the scantily dressed, blitzed, and literally tottering western “Christian” guests a zero nutrient meal of hot chips (fries), with the chip shop’s familiar grayish green anointing curry. Indeed, a mini industry had sprung around the predictable depression of winter-bound, partying Scots—that of chippies and fish shops, open into the wee hours of the morning. By the end of six years in Glasgow, I stood well aware of the national sting of alcoholism, but certainly, and sadly, not without understanding.

I paint with broad strokes here, of course. These are memories mainly from days spent among hotel friends and university colleagues. My church friends weathered the winter rather more sedately, but not without a wee nip to get through the days, and certainly with a lion’s share of fish and chips. West Wing DVD binges, evening parties of games and “chewing the fat” (fun, leisurely chat), and mini-breaks for those who could afford to flee the gray all sustained the less alcohol prone types, as we grinned and struggled to bear the black winter away.

For myself, winterizing our let Scottish flat remained central to my mental survival. There is such a thing as cutting off your arm to spite your face. And, there is such a thing as having no good choices. When the darkness of a Scottish winter crept into Glasgow like the angel of death looking for blood on the lintels of homes, I was living with two American expatriate friends in a grand West End Glasgow flat. A magnanimous blonde stone mansion that had once outfitted an oil or railway baron of sorts in one of Glasgow’s poshest neighborhoods had now been sequestered into four elegant westend Glasgow flats. By some beneficence I still thrall to remember, we three American post-grad students had obtained “letting” rights to this splendor over a small host of other applicants. During spring, summer, and into autumn, we were the envy of all we knew. Our sprawling lounge with its twelve foot high bay window allowed in light, images of foliage, and the sound of children at play on the grounds of their expensive public (private) school across the way.

As winter crept through, however, opulent settings that had once framed our elegant spring view transmogrified to the Achilles heel of wellness and peace. My male flatmate at the time worked part-time researching medieval and modern lives of the saints, and the other seventy percent of this time drinking Jack Daniels and coke and playing an internet based video game with brothers and friends back in the US. His perch was the delicious round table within the sweep of the elegant bay window. Come November, he and I would rather awkwardly heave out the hidden, original, indoor Victorian window shudders, painted black and capable of covering literally the entire span of the floor-to-ceiling windows in a complicated inter-working of hinges and panels. Assembling this indoor screen felt like the muzzling of a bulldog or the blinding of hero, Samson-style. But we did this because there was other way to keep warm. The meager oil heaters scattered here and there like tokens to modernity held no real efficacy. They were no match for the high ceilings and now-insanely tall windows, and this shudder system in effect double glazed the space, however imperfectly. Whereas with a modern home, one stood a chance of creating somewhat stable warmth with space heaters and extra layers, these old flats stood impotent against the softly insidious sting of that millions-strong army of wet winter water cells.

In western Scotland, winter was not the season of snow, but of the far worse dual enemy of damp and darkness. This was the place of clothes that took a week to fully dry on British drying racks, and Victorian floorboards that leeched cellular moisture perpetually. Continually running dehumidifiers, we found, was positively the most effective form of heat management. Would the yesteryear drying power of real fires in the tenement fireplaces proven the key to survival against the potency of this winter water cell army? I certainly hope so for the sake of our forefathers and foremothers!

When we were done securing the blackened panels across our lounge’s windows, I turned to my own small room, likely once a servant’s quarters. There, too, hung original wooden indoor shudders for my window. Around the awkward fitting paneling, I stuffed old pajamas and the summer shorts and tank tops I’d literally never worn in Scotland. Their summer lightness now served as plugs and sealants against my greatest enemy--winter. At last, my small space lay hermetically sealed and guarded against any speck of outdoor water, and indeed, any ray of weak winter sun. I slept, lived, and worked in a cavernous darkness at least three or four months of those years in which I resided in that flat of historic luxury. Night blended almost unnoticed into day, and a cell phone flashlight directed into my eyes each morning was the best means of indicating dayspring to my searching body.

Deeper into the stretch of the city’s west end, my husband-to-be, with a professional job, traditional office hours, and a somewhat larger bank account, battled the lows of the western Scottish winter more genteelly. His best mate, a distinguished Scottish surgeon, lured him into membership at the sleek and financially exclusive David Lloyd west end gym. Here was a gorgeous, artificial, perpetual summer of sorts—the chemical paradise of an indoor pool, ensconced safely within the glass. Here, eminent surgeon sat swan alongside high stakes IT programmer, property developer alongside Oxford-trained eye surgeon. Thus it was that Alistair and Chris swam their way through the sadness of winter.

Somehow, when I think of Alistair, quietly and dramatically insisting that the David Lloyd gym and the pool were the only places keeping him from actual insanity between the pressures of complicated, risky surgeries at a large regional hospital, estrangement with his brother, tensions with a difficult mother, and the memory of a dead, beloved father, I recognized a specter of my own mental workings–a reluctance to admit or inability to see that a beloved object or passion could actually be foremost implicated in my own harm. Was the west coast Scottish darkness the true force that exacerbated all other struggles beyond the point of endurance? Yet, for this Gaelic patriot, the Scottish winter’s almost unrelenting lightlessness never came to the fore as perhaps the central instigator of mental agony. Alistair loved Scotland deeply. The main fonthead of soul-reviving relaxation outside of the gym lay in his emotional involvement with the waves and rhythms of Scotland’s contemporary celtic music. For a man so somber and focused by day, it was spellbinding to observe him unwinding with dances, fast foot-tapping and a subtly rocking body at modern celtic concerts.

As I would think of those two friends, my mind would automatically contrast them, for some reason, with the astonishing scarred man I met at the Garnethill laundromat one Scottish summer’s day. It must have been the year after my own traumatic second degree burns to my feet—boiling kettle, rushing for church, tired and stressed, slippery hands–and my subsequent skin graft surgery at Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary. The scarred man was short, almost childlike in stature, as I found many Scottish men to be, but clearly aged. Almost up the rim of his chin, where neck and head met, danced plaited, pleated scars so complete and decorative that he almost seemed reptilian.

A thick, three-dimensional scar smiled darkly across the top of neck of where throat and chin meet, reminding me of the mark made by my great uncle, who, carrying the burden of PTSD from violence seen in WWII Pacific battles, and now in the first stages of dementia, had slit his throat with a huge metal saw. This gentle, kind, and tall music-loving man had once played the saw musically, eliciting its wobbling, otherworldly siren song with a cello bow against the flat side of the tool. The musical saw’s sound is piercing and otherworldly, finding its sound family with the glassy, wobbling chords of Benjamin Franklin’s glass harmonica. Two decades later, during my undergraduate years, that tall, German-American vet who’d lied about his age to begin serving before he actually turned 18, took that very musical blade slashed it across his neck. “Look what you made me do,” he cried to my usually strong, forceful Polish-American great aunt. He survived, but forever wore that same ring around his long, elegant neck.

Now, as I bid hello to this diminutive, thoroughly scarred man, I looked quickly away, resolved to appear oblivious to what seemed a very intimate tale of attempted suicide on his body. To my surprise, however, after polite greetings in the otherwise empty laundromat, he immediately commenced the tale of his body with strong Glaswegian inflections. Perhaps it was our isolation. Perhaps it was my conspicuous burns scars blazing through summer sandals. Whatever it was, I was so glad to know him, and moved hear his story. I’ll loosely translate from that lilting Glaswegian brogue into more comprehensible but less lyrical American style.

When he was no more than 5 years old boy, he began, his mother had spilled a full kettle of boiling water over her wee son in a horrible kitchen accident. He was taken to hospital, and almost died. These scars besmirching his flesh were the best doctors could do in skin repair forty years ago, and so he’d borne these ostracizing wounds for almost his entire life. Through no fault of his own, this scarred and anxious man stood thoroughly adorned by permanent markings of unintentional violence. He displayed on one frame forever, something of every person’s lifetime of wounds, internal and external, secrets which other bodies adeptly conceal.

He continued his story by describing a most isolated life, one that I can only attribute to the visual taboo of his grotesquely slashed and matted skin. His home was a single bedsit in the Glasgow city center, where he shared a tiny kitchen with four other single men. His trade, however, was sharpening knives and blades of all kinds. I was mildly surprised to learn that he worked, for it had become routine to me to meet men and women “on benefit” for an array of real mental and physical struggles. The delight he took in his labor delighted me.

From the small, highly regulated and much rarer hunting knives that still circulated after the successful 2005 Scottish gang crackdown and knife amnesty, to larger industrial blades for manufacturing machinery, the man whose name escapes my memory, but whose face and form I’ll never forget, could sharpen them all. Here, with talk of his trade, his eyes finally shifted from their haunted anxiety to brightness. I was blessed to hear him speak with some joy of camaraderie among the gents who worked on site with him at the mechanic’s shop. While the rest of the team fixed tires and engines, he practiced his own highly tailored, solitary trade in a small corner.

Perhaps boldly, because of the safety of my engagement ring, I asked him about girlfriends and women, only to hear confirmed a lifetime of isolation and singleness. He sticks out to me among these contemplations of winter for perhaps unmatched mental resilience against outwardly imposed suffering—a human creating what order, purpose, and joy he could amidst day to day agony. It was the story of a lifetime’s Glasgow winter.

I longed for him was to experience acceptance and community across ages and genders. And so, I, not being one to routinely do so, invited him to stop in at our church in the center of the city, a place of community at the very least. I knew men like him there, faint bodily memories of times past —beatings, disabilities, and trauma—but now slowly flourishing, incrementally renewed, and even married against all odds.

At just that moment, my posh Oxbridge roommate arrived. In the wake of the awkwardness of that invitation and her aura which recalled both my connection with another social realm and his gendered isolation, he quickly scurried off down the road, bearing the burden of his laundry like Quasimodo returning to the tower. I have thought of him often since then, praying for love, for community, and great, new hope. As I write here of winter and mental survival, of Alistair needing the bright lights and chlorinated waters of the posh David Lloyd spa and fitness club, of drunken friends, and mentally suffering colleagues, I think of him. I think of the steady, determined living of the scarred, knife-sharpening man.

One late winter’s evening sitting before the artificial blue glow of my laptop in a room enclosed by the total blackout of a Glasgow winter’s evening, I purchased tickets to the romantic heart of Southern France to visit a childhood friend. I was going on mini-break! Think Van Gogh’s cafe by night painting, and you will know Arles, France, the actual location of that iconic coffee shop, and the Dutch master’s home while at the from February 1888 to May 1889. Late February, almost March, I flew from Glasgow to Barcelona, Spain, and from Barcelona to Grenoble, France, and then by train to Arles. My dear American friend’s smile and transcendent ruby curls greeted me, and together we sauntered like those who’ve reached heaven itself through her adopted hometown, a healing intellectual and aesthetic distance from the New Jersey suburb of her youth. I posed by a Baroque fountain, while an enthusiastic male youth, adorned in an expensive Chanel “merce”, man-purse, jumped in to cradle me and photobomb the shot. We paused at a cafe on a winding, cobblestone street resounding with gentle guitar music for coffee and cocoa--all my European dreams were coming true. We continued on to Arles’ ancient Roman arena, where I heard tell of jazz and opera concerts, and finally emerged before the pinnacle, iconic Arles sight–its mirthful 1900 carousel.

Each of Katherine’s overseas guests were brought here and invited to ride the most famous of all Arlesian beasts—the black bull—El Toro of the carousel. Arlesian voices, Katherine explained, cacophonied in a dynamic, regional debate over the beauty or butchery of the bullfight. When these people of Southern France craved societal momentum, their chosen form of activism was always the formation of a society–the Society for Perpetuating Bullfights, the Society for Ethical Treatment of the Bull, the Society for Ending all Bullfights, etc. Across the road from one such society in an elegant turn of the century building, I paid my euros, and we laughed as the little carousel propelled my postgraduate student body up and down like a child’s. I balled my hands into fists and extended pointer fingers into two playful horns for my own forehead. For one puerile moment, I embodied El Toro himself.

For all the charm of that exploratory, Southern France day, the moment that stands immortalized in my mind was a quiet one. Descending the bull, and resting on the cobblestone pavements between the carousel and the boulangerie where Katherine quickly ran to purchased dinner baguettes, I felt a warmth steal across my face, neck, and decolletage. What was this glowing orange heat descending from the sky? How was this mercy of a peachy, gentle heat present on a mere late February day? Soaked in the mild ecstasy of this magnanimous anomaly, I drowsily wondered again what was this golden orb was doing filling the winter sky so warmly. I am not one to anthropomorphize flesh, but in that moment, my assemblage of cells spoke almost audibly. They begged me to pause, to stop, to soak, to drink in every lingering ray of sunlight. They would not budge.

There can be tears for the relief of battle we barely knew we had. There can be weeping with the realization that we had unknowingly survived truly destabilizing insufficiencies for so long. And at that moment, tears literally sprang to my eyes as I luxuriated in the gentle fullness of a benediction so long denied—the necessary mercy of sunlight for my pale, deprived epidermis. Here was a long forgotten grace for both body and mind. Here was a reminder of an alternative world where sun reigned not as a far off, chance promise, but as an immanent, abundant love.

In 1971, John Denver, the American folk singer with a flaxen gold bowl cut sang, “Sunshine, on my shoulders, makes me happy…Sunshine almost always makes me high.” This racy line sat neatly memorized in my mind, snuck in among other more lighthearted folk fare from my parents’ 1970’s favorites. I vividly recall my parents discussing, with insufficiently hushed voices from the front seat of our gray airport limousine-style van on a trip west around America in the mid-1990’s, whether Simon and Garfunkel’s Cecilia was appropriate musical fodder for the mixed company of our family’s emerging pre-teens, teens, toddlers, and elementary students. “Makin’ love in the afternoon with Cecelia, up in my bedroom! Makin’ love!…” So little music did our parents bring, and so many long hours in the car made for a categorically memorized albums–beauty, revolution, salaciousness, and all. By the end of that month-long trek we kids had memorized much of Peter Paul and Mary’s In The Wind, John Denver’s Best Of, and Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Waters—all of which rotated like clockwork with an audiobook performance of Jane Eyre.

That day, standing in the long alien sun on that street in southern France, the line from John’s “Sunshine” filtered to the surface of long forgotten memories. To be clear, whether it makes me nerd or novice, I have never been “high” in the usual illegal, high school manner; yet, I have experienced the ebullience of a day out with friends and no obligations and money to spend, or the delight and honor of winning a grand, unexpected prize, whether first place in a the school wide coloring contest in kindergarten, or the university Presidential Award. This moment of sun’s mercy was like that—a shock of sheer biological joy, soaking in upon my skin, almost against my will or asking, and ushering with it, a deeply gladdened heart and endorphins. I no longer giggled and smirked at John Denver and his chillaxed, hippy musings. I sang alongside in fully realized understanding. How, oh how, could I return to dark Scotland?

Back in my little cavernous bedroom a week later, I distractedly ordered a large jar of encapsulated vitamin D3. Each small, smooth and marble-like tablet appeared so inane, harmless, even placebo. I tossed one in my mouth, In fact, I think I tossed 5 in my mouth for few days straight. I had no idea of their efficacy, but I reasoned that if in theory, I had been missing out on this necessity for five years, my body would require a small jolt of awakening to begin its journey into recovery. Chasing them down with water, I probably raced on with the movements of my busy life. And suddenly, a week or two later, as I turned up the circular staircase of our Victorian flat, I noticed that the unhinged sadness and chaos that had darkly plagued my inner world had calmed ever so subtly.

It was not the burst of what I imagine a drugged high must be, but the soothing calm of gently increasing stability, the slow, almost imperceptible release from the whirling bedlam of a blurred and muddied mind. The little blue pitch-forked demons of Disney’s 1959 Sleeping Beauty had ceased their authoritative dance and disappeared into a poof of nothing.

“Wow, I’m not insane anymore,” I muttered softly to myself. Gratitude, then annoyance flowed through me. Why, oh why, hadn’t I just tried it before? I would have liked to know that I was more than the “sweet” but distracted and zany blonde—that a measure of winter peace was possible, ever so subtly.

I’ve been a sun chaser ever since. I could not go back, could not slacken my pursuit of the gift of God’s best UV rays. My body and practices have grown more savvy, tailoring their thirst to the most vanguard research—10-20 minutes a day of obsolescence before the orbital rays on as much skin as possible in the prime window of lowest UVB rays—10am to 2pm. I respect the sensitivities of the face, neck, and shoulders.

For so long, I’d scorned the Glaswegian flight to crass, boozy Majorca, Spain, with what I deemed to be its tacky modern hotels and abundance of alcoholic loitering on the sands. Why, I mused, would a nation with such ready access to Europe’s innumerable cultural splendors and fine countrysides beeline in droves to a that tasteless resort landscape? I’d drunk the molding Kool-aid of belief in fading science—wearing sunscreen even on overcast days in cloudy Scotland, and trying to cover every inch of skin with fabric, even on warm far northern days, dreaming all the while of the crowning trophy of smooth, creamy pensioner (retiree) skin, coupled with a remarkable freedom from skin cancer. But now, after seven years of winter darkness and year-round mist, my snobbish disdain broke down with understanding for those I’d once slighted –you must fill up on sun and wellness before any culture becomes important. Pale and D3 deprived as I was, it dawned on me that there was grave logic to British comedian Michael McIntyre’s routine about the Glaswegian airport bombing attempt. Contrasting successful terrorists in London and Manchester, British born Islamic jihadists failed in their malicious bomb plots here in Glasgow, where a winter-beaten Glaswegian man tackled the physician- turned-jihadist in overweening determination to let nothing keep him from…Majorca.

When I next visited Glasgow seven years following our emigration, my friend Lindsey stood contemplating my Americanized postpartum body. She who had known me well in the Glasgow days observed, “You have some curves to you now, and some colour!” It was late October then, and so particularly gratifying to appear even remotely tanned! I reveled in my new hue, a sun-kissed peach, no longer the pallid, muted white linked to breast cancer and MS.

Now as a thirty-something year old scholar, mother, and partner, I look to photos of fellow thirty year old Scottish friends. Two Octobers ago, I sat with them in an ornate Victorian sandstone building-turned-Starbucks, drinking in the miracle of their lovely children, and seeing photos of their flourishing middle class lives. They worked as a professors, teachers, bank tellers, mothers, and volunteered with refugees, addicts, and international students. They lived day by day still in this cloud of gray, and theirs is a resilience I marvel to behold. I raise my glass of almond milk and another of kombucha to them, and salute their Scottish hardiness. My heart opens in prayer for the gift of mental wellness for them, and for those of us everywhere who find the shift to winter darkness an elephant of gloom sitting upon hearts. Let us fill our homes with green plants, keep connected in fun and kinship with friends, especially the lonely, pop our vitamin D3 with its enabling K2 buddy, and long for the lights of Christmas, Hanukkah, and Yule who offer bright, needful stars of hope and celebration against a black winter sky.

As we walk in darkness, visions of summer remains my close companion hope, a specter walking by my side, the dream, like heaven reaching close to earth. And if we have eyes to see, we raise our fragile fingers to touch the veil between this present world and the next springtime. Memories and testimonies from far across the equator where antipodean New Zealand and Australian summers reign alongside our winter become the motivating promise that at the culmination of this obligatory darkness, there will be my body glistening with sun and sweat by the sonorous utterance of the lapping ocean waves.

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maevefiction · 6 years

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Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 34

We spent the remainder of our summer and early fall in London living like normal people and doing normal things. I’d get up and head into work each morning, my main focus having shifted to overseeing Trudy’s progress on the app and delving into creating pages on the Prosper site for all our clients, while Tom kept his social media activity at the level we’d agreed upon, in conjunction with working out, running lines for Skull Island, meeting with BFI and UNICEF, as well as reading the rest of the Vampire Chronicles.

Each night, we’d either eat in or go out to one of Tom’s favorite spots for dinner, and each weekend he’d take me to what he considered a ‘cannot be missed’ landmark or locale. Sundays were usually cinema day, my personal favorites we viewed being The Man From U. N. C. L. E. and American Ultra. Tom was fond of Before We Go, but I pointed out that he had to like it otherwise Captain America would kick his sorry ass, because he already had it out for him over the whole Loki wearing his suit thing. Interestingly, other than a random pap here and there in the heart of the city, we were essentially left to our own devices. No one seemed to care that we were walking around Regent’s Park drinking tea and coffee, having pizza, or grocery shopping. There were fans on occasion, and Tom was always gracious, stopping for a selfie and/or a chat, with me waiting in the wings or taking pictures. I had known it was possible to maintain some degree of anonymity no matter the level of fame involved, and now I’d come to the conclusion that it had a lot to do with the behavior of the celebrity themselves and directly proportional to the size of their entourage. Which we didn’t have, nor wished to have. Granted, Tom had yet to achieve rock god status, but still…if we smiled, waved, and moved on, so did everyone else. People being people.

Two weeks after his sisters had been informed of their father’s infidelity and misdirected their anger at Tom, Emma came over to our flat and they Skyped Sarah, talking through tears and shouts for two hours before apologizing to each other and realizing that the blame lay with no one other than Diana and James themselves. It was a huge weight off his shoulders, and it allowed us to move forward, both of us having dealt with our pasts as well as we could for the time being. Healing, learning, and discovering more and more of each other with every day that passed. Mundane things, like what kind of toothpaste either of us preferred, when we’d learned out times tables…the feeling that I’d always known him becoming increasingly prevalent and so very welcome. While I’d recognized that we were not only lovers but friends as well that night when I willingly shared my Ben and Jerry’s with him at the beach house in Hawaii, I couldn’t have imagined how deep that friendship would become. We lived, we loved, we laughed, and it was astounding to me that I could feel such…peace.

In mid-September the insanity began, both of us going on the road for the promotion of not one, not two, but THREE projects, High-Rise, I Saw the Light and Crimson Peak. The San Sebastian Film Festival, Toronto International Film Festival (where we ran into Norman, there promoting Sky, whose premier he invited us to and we attended), the BFI London Film Festival…it seemed endless, the screenings, Tom doing interview after interview, photoshoots and photo calls, Q & A sessions. How he managed to keep which project he was promoting at which event was a mystery to me, and I found myself asking him ‘dude, what’s this one for again’ more than once, and I spent nearly every moment behind the lens of a camera.

Nights were when I edited what I’d gathered and emailed it to Tom, who’d then post it all across his social media accounts. Then came updating the website, followed by fast and furious fucking, then sleep. At some point in all the chaos he‘d dragged me into a coatroom and fucked me from behind, but the when and where wasn’t the slightest bit important at the time so determining its actual geographical occurrence is now impossible…but other than that, we behaved ourselves, acting like grown-up professionals with jobs. I enjoyed just fading into the background and watching him shine. His performance in all three films blew me away, but High Rise was my favorite story. The abortion scene in I Saw the Light made me cringe, especially when I considered how he must have felt filming it, so soon after what he’d been through in his personal life. As soon as it was over, he’d leaned over and kissed my cheek, his hand in mine, both of us squeezing gently.

October twelfth found us in New York City, staying at my apartment, me packing up boxes to be shipped to London that week. My books, the rest of my clothes, and my computer. The rest would remain for when we visited, and while I knew I’d never sell the place, I also knew London had, in an obscenely short period of time, become home. The New Orleans house had been completely cleaned out, the August estate sale netting upwards of one hundred thousand dollars, and Tom made good on his promise to donate a matching amount to the women’s shelter while the actual proceeds were delivered to Will’s wife anonymously. I wasn’t sure what to do about renovations, but was hoping to stop in at some point during the holiday season and think it through.

The fourteenth was the NYC premiere of Crimson Peak, and we’d agreed that while I’d attend, I wouldn’t walk the carpet. He’d balked, at first, but I’d convinced him that doing so would allow everyone to focus on him and his co-stars, which was exactly where the focus BELONGED. I wore the black version of the red dress I’d worn to Daniel, and spent the entire limo ride back to the apartment following the after-party with his face buried in my breasts.

We flew to Nashville on the seventeenth to prepare for the premiere of I Saw the Light…Tom’s anxiety level ratcheted up to a nine, dreading the possibility of an appearance by Claudia. I steeled myself as best as I could, but, thankfully, it was completely unnecessary. The director wanted the venue to be small and down-home, so only bare-bones cast invites had been extended. Meeting his co-star Lizzie was a blast…she was friendly, funny, dorky and gorgeous. The two of us hung out in front of the stage as Tom performed for the crowd, dancing like a couple of idiots and singing along. He was incredible, those damn hips distracting me to no end, and his SMILE, my lord. He’d tried to teach me some guitar chords while we were on the road, but, as expected, I sucked in a way that no one had probably ever sucked before and decided once and for all that being able to sing was enough musical talent for one human being.

Principal photography for Skull Island was slated to start on the nineteenth on Oahu, but Tom wasn’t needed on set until November second so we decided to take a holiday the two weeks prior on Kauai. He’d even managed to sweet talk the reservations gal into giving us the same room…the one I’d been staying in when we met, number 203. As soon as we arrived, we both changed and headed out to put our toes in the sand, which is how we spent most of our time for the next ten days. At long last, my ass was on the fucking beach and it was pure, unadulterated bliss. The nights…that’s when we made up for lost time, screwing each other senseless until we passed out from exhaustion.

Luke and Simon joined us on the twenty-ninth, a short birthday celebration jaunt for the latter. On the thirtieth we all went out to Nawiliwili Tavern to celebrate him turning thirty-eight, and I karaoked so much my throat hurt the next day. And really, it was just from singing. Really.

On the morning of my birthday, I left Tom snoring in our bed to watch the Halloween sunrise from the balcony, a knee-length tropical print satin robe wrapped around me. I’d become a fan of robes…easy to slip on, even easier to rip off. Both of us slept naked, and with all the hotels, room service and sex whenever we could squeeze it in while traveling, it was an excellent way to prevent me from answering the door in the buff. I leaned on the railing, listening to the waves crashing, watching the three joggers heading down the beach leaving sand flying in their wake. Thirty-eight. I wasn’t sure how the fuck this had happened, yet here I was, two years away from forty, the biological clock that had been silent before meeting Tom now ticking away loudly. We both baby goggled, and while we were still back in London we’d had lunch with Ben and his wife, each taking turns holding their baby. I’d caught Tom staring at me, his expression making me want toss my birth control pills in the garbage…full of adoration, love, want and so much more. And him holding such a tiny being in his huge hands…too precious for words.

Last year on this day I’d been working, giving a seminar in Chicago, and my celebration had consisted of six donuts at eleven-thirty PM in my hotel room while I watched the Matrix. This year…other than a costume party at Rob’s Good Times Grill in the evening, I had no clue what was in store for me. I reflected on how much my life had changed, and how I was so incredibly blessed, realizing that I’d be perfectly content to spend the entire day in our room, talking, laughing, dancing…all those simple things that made me genuinely happy. Me. Happy. Something I never thought I’d be, yet here I was. Standing on the balcony of the room where we’d first been intimate, on the island where we’d fallen in love. Grateful tears welled up, spilling over and running down my cheeks, and as I wiped them away I felt hands on my shoulders, followed by a kiss on my neck.

“Good morning, birthday girl.” I turned to face him, and he immediately noticed that I’d been crying. “You okay, love?”

“I’m amazing. Happy tears. Actually, grateful tears. Just thinking about how different things are from last year, and…”

He pulled me to his chest, smoothing my hair as he placed a kiss on top of my head. “I love you, my Maude.” He let me go, hands sliding around and down to grasp my forearms, grinning. “So, ready for your present?”

I poked his chest with my index finger. “Dude, you PROMISED me, NO PRESENTS. The time we’re getting to spend together here before you start filming is my present, and every day with you is a gift ANYWAY so…”

Several beats of uncharacteristic silence followed. “Well look at you, leaving me at a loss for words.”

Wrangling free of his grip, I clapped excitedly. “That’s like a whole ‘NOTHER present, man. WOO HOO!”

He laughed, a drawn out ‘ehehehehehe’, ceasing only when we thought we heard someone yell for us to shut up. We ran back inside and closed the balcony doors behind us, sat on the bed and perused the breakfast menu. I opted for scrambled eggs, pancakes and bacon, and Tom decided upon an egg and cheese omelet. After eating quickly, we showered together, and as we dried off in the main area of the room he cleared his throat nervously.

“So, um…I was wondering if maybe you’d like to take a ride out to Talk Story today? I thought perhaps you’d want to pick up some new reading material for while I’m shooting?”

The man knew the only time I had to read these days was when I was on the toilet, but I went with it because, BOOKS. And I’d wanted to go there before we moved on to Oahu anyway, even if it was just to look around. The origin of us. A huge grin spread across my face.

“That sounds fucking epic, babe. What time is it now, like eight-thirty? They open at ten, and the trip there is an hour…”

“Shall we see if Luke and Simon want to join us?”

I snorted. “Ha, if Simon’s even awake yet it would be a bona-fide fucking miracle…but sure, why not? It’d be cool for them to see where we met. God, I’m such a romantic saphead asshat. Gross.”

He laughed, wrapped his towel around his waist and grabbed his phone off the desk. I returned to the bathroom to brush my teeth, only hearing bits and pieces of the conversation. After hanging up, he joined me, eyes on my reflection, and the memory of him fucking me right there four months ago made me shiver, goosebumps pebbling my flesh.

“Believe it or not, they’re not only awake, they’ve had breakfast. Or at least Luke has. Simon appears to be on a liquid diet so far today.”

I spit a final time then spun around, brows raised, and he chuckled.

“What I MEANT was he’s too hung over for food, little miss filthy dirty mind.”

I slapped his ass as I walked out of the bathroom to get dressed. “You fucking love it.”

“Oh, I absolutely do.”

Black bra and panties, grey hiking shorts…but I figured I should ask what he was wearing before I picked out a shirt.

“Babe, what are you....” I’d turned around so my voice would carry better to the bathroom only to find him right THERE, his cock at half-mast. I coughed, then continued. “Wearing. What are you wearing? Fuck, the naked sneak up is NOT COOL, Hiddleston.”

He smirked. “My khaki shorts and a white V-neck, I think.”

“Good. Then I can wear a black one.” I finished dressing while he began, then went to stand before the mirror so I could put my hair back in a ponytail. I’d had it cut and styled before we left London, the ends brushing just below my collar bones. For some reason, even just a few inches and a tiny bit of layering made it much easier to manage. As I was strapping on my Birkenstocks, a quiet rapping on the door began. Tom opened it, and when I saw Simon was wearing giant Kardashian-style mirrored aviator sunglasses indoors, I shouted. Loudly. Even though it hurt my throat to do so.

“Good morning, Mr. Ahlberg. How are we feeling today? Looks like you may have had too much birthday, am I right?”

His voice was raspy as he pulled the Panama hat he was sporting further down his forehead. “Fuck off, bitch.” He was wearing a dark green Polo shirt, white shorts and white loafers.

I rose as he and Luke entered the room, and Luke grinned as he embraced me briefly.

“Happy Birthday, Maude.”

“Thank you, Luke. You look none the worse for wear.” He’d paired khaki shorts with a medium-blue faded T-shirt and Teva sandals, also khaki with blue stripes.

He snorted. “One of us had to behave responsibly. He was up half the night with his head in the bowl…”

Simon shoved him out of the way, wrapping his arms around me to support himself after placing a quick kiss on my cheek, whispering in my ear. “Please kill me. I know it’s your birthday, but it IS Halloween so it’s sort of apropos and I really need to die. I beg you. Put me out of my misery.”

I squeezed him tightly and whispered back. “Not a chance, asshole. I enjoy your snark entirely too much to let it slip from my grasp so easily.”

He sighed, releasing me. “Fine, fine. On with the hour long car ride then. Followed by staring at some books. Then an hour long car ride back. All during which I could have been resting up for tonight.”

We used their rental car, as I’d demanded to have a Jeep Wrangler again and thought Simon might puke if we took that instead. Much like Luke had thought he’d do when we’d gone to our Hula class. Ah, life’s fun parallels that arise from excessive alcohol consumption. Tom had gone back up to the room to retrieve his forgotten phone, and when he came back we were off. Luke and Simon sat in the back, Simon resting his head on Luke’s shoulder, moaning from time to time when Tom took a turn too fast.

He parked us a block down, and we jumped out of the vehicle, excited to be back, and he picked me up and spun me around as we waited for Simon’s slow-ass self.

I rolled my eyes as Tom set me down. “Christ, Simon…you’re like a little old man. Fucking move it along, won’t you?”

I got the bird in return, but the corners of his mouth turned up in a tiny smile. The ibuprofen I’d given him in the car must have started to kick in. Why he hadn’t thought of it on his own…no clue. As we reached the red doors, Tom took my hand, smiling as he opened the door for me. It was exactly the same, which wasn’t really a surprise as only four months had passed, but a feeling washed over me at the sight of it anyway, one of pure joy. His hand squeezed mine as we walked inside, and behind the counter was Roger Marshal, still bearded, same glasses, different Hawaiian shirt, this time red with green leaves. He grinned widely and came around to shake our hands.

“Aloha, Mr. Hiddleston, Ms. Gallagher. Welcome back. I see you brought friends with you on this glorious Halloween day in paradise.”

Tom introduced him to Simon and Luke while I wandered down to the stacks where we’d met. The place was relatively empty…I didn’t see anyone, but assumed customers were just quietly browsing elsewhere. Music was playing, something by 10,000 Maniacs, the name of which always escaped me. Almost instinctually, I went right for the ‘K’s, looking for my white whale…and…THERE IT FUCKING WAS. Not three feet away from me, the spine of the dust jacket unmistakable, silver-grey with a long black tower and yellow text. I stood, frozen in place, listening to footsteps approaching just as I had on that day back in June. Tom’s hand touched my shoulder gently.

“You okay? You didn’t move a muscle while we walked down here.”

I pointed. “It’s there. Do you see it? Tell me you see it.”

He looked. “See what?”

“THE BOOK. THE GUNSLINGER. Yellow text. Black tower. TELL ME YOU SEE IT.”

“Oh, okay…yes…I see it. Wait, isn’t that…”

I nodded, still using my indoor voice but enunciating so strongly they sounded out in all caps. “YES. MY WHITE WHALE. THAT IS A FIRST EDITION COPY OF THE GUNSLINGER.”

He laughed, squeezing my shoulder. “And you’re not over there pulling it off the shelf and holding on to it for dear life, why, exactly?”

Reaching up, I patted his hand gently as I whispered. “Because I’m afraid that if I move or even if I blink it will disappear, having only been the cruelest of mirages.”

“If I can see, it, it MUST be real, yes?” His other hand patted my ass. “Best grab it before someone else does, don’t you think?”

I turned to him briefly, eyes wide. “YES. Excellent idea.”

One step, two steps, both very slow, and I noticed that the song had changed. Tilting my head to make sure I wasn’t hearing things in addition to possibly seeing things, I listened closely, turning back around to face Tom.

“Is it me or…is that Tigerlily by La Roux?”

His own head tilted, and he nodded, smiling. “You’re right, it is. What a fantastic coincidence!”

I nodded again, then turned back to my prey. Another two steps and I was there, reaching out my hand to touch the spine gingerly, then quickly pulling back as if I’d been burned.

“Oh my god it’s REAL. And not only is it REAL I think it’s in, like, MINT FUCKING CONDITION this is…I just…” I carefully slid it off the shelf, turning it over in my hands, then back again, opening the cover ever so gently. Much to my horror, there was something written on the flyleaf. I was about to stomp my foot when I noticed my name.

Happy Birthday, Maude.

You hold in your hands not only a first edition, but one from my personal collection…and out of the first box the publisher sent to me. The God of Mischief asked me to do him a solid, and I figured it might be a good idea to go the extra mile. Thanks for being a Constant Reader all these years, and may the wheel of Ka always move forward for you.

With love,

Steve

PS - CONGRATULATIONS!

Tigerlily was still playing, and I re-read the text again, realizing that Tom had planned all of this, for ME, for MY birthday, and I nearly burst into tears but the last bit of what Steve…STEPHEN FUCKING KING… had written confused me and I focused on that in an attempt to keep my shit together. I began speaking, still staring at the word as I turned around.

“Tom, why did he write congra…” I looked up from my precious treasure but didn’t see him, just Luke and Simon, their phones held up and pointing at me. “…ulations?” My gaze moved lower, and there he was. Tom. Down on one knee. Right arm extended. And in his hand was a small black box.

I’d like to say the world around me grew silent and time stopped and the angels began to sing, but that would be lying and, if nothing else, I’m an honest woman.

What really happened is that I blurted out “Ohmygodthefuckareyoudoing?” followed by my right hand flying up to cover my mouth, trying to shove what had just come out back in.

His eyes met mine, peering up from under his brows, lashes so long and soft and glistening with tears, his smile shy and kind and beautiful and I could see his hand shaking just the tiniest bit and my knees got weak and I had to uncover my mouth so I could breathe otherwise my big ass was going to hit the fucking floor.

He cleared his throat, then began to speak. “One hundred and twenty-five days. That’s how long it’s been since I walked through those red doors, down these stacks and saw you, my light in the mist. All of those days that came and went before…they all appear in shades of grey in my mind now, as if I never truly saw the world around me in color until the moment my eyes met yours for the first time. And however many more days we’re blessed with on this earth, I want to spend each and every one of them with you. I know I’ve said this bit already, when we first arrived in New York, but…I’m going to say it again, because it’s the truth, the only truth I know, the only truth that matters. I will love you all of this life, and in each and every one that follows. I will love you as the world turns to ash around us. I will love you as the universe collapses into itself, and in the blackness of the eternity that awaits, I will remain, with you, at your side, holding your hand, never to let go. This love…it knows no bounds. It is forever. Two souls made one, together unto infinity. Maude Gallagher, will you do me the honor…the most extraordinary honor that could ever be bestowed upon me…of becoming my wife?”

I’d stopped breathing at some point, inhaling with an audible gasp at his conclusion, then answering.

“Absofuckingloutely. Yes. Yes yes yes yes YES!”

I threw myself at him, and he rose to catch me just in time, both of us laughing and crying, his forehead resting against mine, Simon and Luke whistling and shouting as we kissed, murmuring ‘I love you’ over and over when we came up for air. Tom pulled back, grinning holding up the black box and shaking it back and forth.

“Aren’t you curious to see your ring?”

Rolling my eyes, I sighed. “I guess so. Whip it out.”

He opened the lid, and what I saw nested inside the black velvet made me feel faint for the second time in mere minutes. The ring was sterling silver, with an oval cut and polished black stone set in raised parenthesis shaped sterling silver bars, one to each side, perfectly mimicking of the style of the necklace given to me by my father. My voice eluded me, and he mistook my silence for displeasure.

“It’s not traditional, I know, and if you’d rather have a diamond we can…”

My head shook back and forth as I reached out and touched it with my right index finger in disbelief, then met his gaze.

“That’s black tourmaline.” He nodded, and I recalled the conspiratorial glance Luke’s mother and Tom’s sister had shared after I’d tried on a ring back at the Cube gallery. “Phaedra made this.”

He nodded again, eyes questioning. I bit my lip, then inhaled sharply before speaking again. “Will you put it on me please?”

His voice was timid, soft. “You like it, then?”

“No, Tom. I love it. It’s perfect. You’re perfect. Everything’s perfect. Put. It. On. Me.” I grinned. “Please.”

As Simon sidled over and took the Gunslinger away from me, Tom slipped the ring out of its slot, put the box in his pocket, then took my left hand in his right and slid the first tangible symbol of our commitment to one another home with the other, a huge, beautiful smile spreading across his face as I brought both our hands up to stare at my latest jewelry acquisition. He watched me, silently, and all the other moments that I’d pushed aside over the past four months formed a slideshow in my mind’s eye. Ben smirking at us as we looked through his wedding album, nudging his wife in the ribs as she giggled…what I’d overheard at Diana’s house, that he wanted something to be ‘perfect’…and, finally, the afternoon at Greenwood Cemetery back in New Orleans when I’d said goodbye to my father. Tom had gone to the crypt, introduced himself and told my father how much he loved me, then asked him a question, cupping his hand to his mouth and whispering against the stone, waiting for an answer, then nodding as he said ‘thank you, sir’. When I’d asked what his question had been he’d refused to tell me, though when I inquired as to whether my father had answered, he’d replied ‘I’d like to think he did.’

Gasping, my hand again flew to my mouth as my breath hitched and the tears flowed. “Tom…my god…how long…when did you decide…was it back in…Tom, that day in the cemetery…my dad…is that what you…”

He nodded, weeping as well. “Yes. I asked him for your hand in marriage.”

Choking back sobs, I reached out and placed my right hand on his shoulder. “But…when did you…when…”

His fingers grazed my temple, then my cheek, coming to rest on my jaw. “When did I know that I wanted to marry you?” I nodded. “That moment in the hotel in New Orleans when you said that if you really, truly love someone you accept them just as they are…and that you accepted me, all of me, every bit. As I took you in my arms, it hit me…I wasn’t just holding the woman I’d fallen in love with any longer. I was holding my wife.”

My sobs broke free, and I wrapped myself around him and buried my face in his chest. He rocked me, smoothing my hair, his chin on the top of my head. “I’m sorry it took me so long to ask. I just…I wanted it to be…perfect.”

Pulling away, I snorted. “Mission accomplished, you glorious bastard. This was over the top, ridiculously romantic, Clint Eastwood and Rob Reiner co-directing a love story PERFECT.”

His eyes widened. “Oh, I almost forgot. The ring…there’s an inscription…”

I yanked it off and held it up to my face. Around the solid portion of the band, flanked on either side by two tiny books was written in a teeny, tiny font, two lines, one on top of the other:

Talk Story - 6/29/15 - Our Story

My Light in the Mist

“Thomas William Hiddleston, I hope you realize that now we have to get MARRIED here. Like, right here. In this very spot. Bridezilla has come ashore and she won’t have it any other way.” I turned my attention from the ring to his face. “I’m serious. Can we? Is that cool with you? Getting married here? I mean, I guess we need to ask…” His smirk resulted in an epic eye roll and heavy sigh from me as I slipped the ring back on my finger. “Aaaaand…you already asked, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “Roger’s fine with it. We just need to let him know a few weeks in advance so he can arrange to close the shop.”

For some reason, that solidified what had just occurred. Tom had asked me to marry him. I’d said yes. I was now his fiancé, the future Mrs. Thomas Hiddleston. And there was now a wedding to plan. Which was exciting and amazing but I had no idea what to do next so I just stood, like a deer caught in headlights. He leaned in, nose touching mine.

“You okay?”

I nodded hard, attempting to clear my head, letting the euphoria take over. “My god, we’re getting MARRIED. Maude Hiddleston. I’m going to need to start practicing that. Gotta say, it sounds pretty fucking great. Nice ring to it. Maude Hiddleston. Yep. Sold.”

His jaw had dropped open, then closed again, eyes full of surprise. “I…you…you want to change your name?”

“Uhhh…yeah. Why wouldn’t I? I mean, if you don’t want…”

He took my hands in his. “Oh, no, no…I…I’d love for you to take my name. See, that sounds awful. Archaic. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to or that I expected you to because, I mean, you’re known a certain way professionally and…”

My lips found his, tongue pushing into his mouth, silencing him the best way I knew how. And, other than pushing his head down between my thighs, my favorite way. As we broke the kiss, he grinned, and so did I.

“Tom. I know some women are very much against changing their names or like to hyphenate, and that’s totally cool, but I’m not one of them. To me, it’s part of joining with someone. Being a family. If that makes me old-fashioned, too fucking bad. Plus, what happens when your kid with the hyphenated name marries another kid with a hyphenated name? Chaos, I say. Chaos.”

His expression was so earnest, so thankful that it caused me to take pause, during which I become cognizant of all I had to be thankful for as well. And that I hadn’t even said thank you, for anything he’d done, which resulted in waterworks yet again as I let go of his hands to place mine on the sides of his beautifully chiseled countenance.

“I’m so sorry…I didn’t say thank you, for any of this…but I’m telling you now. Thank you, Tom. Thank you. I’m going to remember this forever and tell it over and over and our kids and grandkids will be like SHUT UP WE HEARD THAT STORY A HUNDRED TIMES ALREADY and it’s just…I love you, so much, and I’m so blessed to have you in my life and my god, I can’t believe you want to MARRY me because I mean I’m ME and…”

It was his turn to cut things off with a kiss, and as he pulled back I heard Simon’s voice, realizing I had completely forgotten that we weren’t alone and wondering exactly how much they’d filmed.

“Yay, yay, you’re engaged, that’s super, who isn’t though, you know? Anyway. I’m going to create a diversion because if Maude cries again I’m going to lose all respect for her and, frankly, I don’t have that much left TO lose so…” He wrenched me from Tom’s grasp and turned me to face him. “SO, I assume that I’ll be your maid of honor? Because honey, you are REALLY going to need my help…”

I rolled my eyes. “Actually, you’ll wind up being my MATRON of honor because you’ll probably be MARRIED by then, you big fucking dumbass. And…and…” I started to sniffle, tears welling up again.

He covered his eyes with his right hand, having taken the shades off to film, and groaned. “Oh. My. God. Are you going to cry from now until whenever it is you get hitched? Because if that’s the case feel free to go before Luke and I do.”

When I didn’t reply, he uncovered his eyes, saw the look on my face and placed both hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry, gorgeous…talk to me.”

Taking a deep breath, I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of one hand, then attempted to speak. “Will you…I…my…I don’t have a…my dad…isn’t…will…will you walk me down the aisle?”

He, Tom and Luke burst into tears at that, Simon’s hand over his mouth as he nodded repeatedly and pulled me to his chest. His voice was deep but soft in my ear when he was able to talk again. “Of course I will, honey. Of course I will. I’m so sorry your father won’t be there. And you know I’m, like, SO not religious so I’m not going to give you the watching over you nonsense, though I guess who the fuck really knows, but in a way he WILL be there, because he’s part of you. And we need to talk about something else now because crying is making my headache IN-FUCKING-TOLERABLE…”

He released me and Luke took his place immediately, warmly embracing me for the second time that day. His quiet authority was what I saw most of…it wasn’t until we were off the clock that he became himself, and even at that we were only moderately affectionate. Drunk Luke, though…that was an entirely different story. After a few pats to the back, we let each other go, and I pointed at Tom.

“This is some stunt you pulled here, young man. I hope you realize that.”

He grinned from ear to ear, tongue peeking out from between his teeth. “Oh, I do.” His brows rose. “Were you truly surprised?”

“Um, YEAH. No clue. Well, not exactly NO clue. I mean, I picked up on a few things along the way that I seemed odd but I just pushed them aside because…” My eyes turned skyward as I thought of the best way to phrase what came next. “Because as much as I wanted it to be what I thought it was, I couldn’t be sure and I didn’t want to be disappointed if it never happened, I guess. But. Yeah. So, do we need to fill anyone in on the news or am I totally the last one to know?”

“If it never happened. You’re a silly, silly girl.” His lips grazed my cheek. “And yes, there are still plenty of people to tell. Anyone who was privy to my plan was purely essential.”

My left eyebrow shot up. “Oh, how did Ben and Sophie factor in? Do tell.”

He blushed adorably. “I may have tattled to Chris and Elsa too. But…Anne’s still in the dark, so maybe start there?”

Simon had set the Gunslinger on the nearest table, and I started at it and sighed happily. “I cannot BELIEVE you not only managed to find me a first edition copy of the Gunslinger, but you got Stephen King to sign it, and it’s ONE FROM HIS PERSONAL COLLECTION. You are such a complete dork, and I am the luckiest woman alive, Thomas William Hiddleston.”

He walked to my side and slipped an arm around my waist. “So, should we take a photo to post online? Or would you rather do something more formal?”

I snorted. “Fuck formal. Picture, please.”

I held up my left hand at face level between us, the back of it towards Tom’s phone, which Luke was holding, then pointed at the ring with my right and posed with my mouth stretched wide open in a gleeful grin. Tom pointed at it as well, and three clicks later we were good to go.

Taking the phone back from Luke, he typed, then stopped. “Do you want to call Anne before I post this?”

“Nah. I’ll wait for her to call. It’s more fun this way…and honestly, I have no idea how to tell people without sounding like an asshole, so…yeah. Post it.”

He clicked, then turned the screen so I could see it. There we were, his expression mimicking mine, his Twitter message short and sweet.

She said YES!!!!!!!!!! #thefuturemrshiddleston, #iamsoveryblessed, #luckiestmanintheuniverse

Chuckling, I passed the phone back to him. “Um, actually what I said was ‘absofuckingloutely’. Shit. That’s like, filmed and recorded as my official reaction to being proposed to in the most beautiful and perfect way possible. Nice one, me.”

Luke cleared his throat. “So, not to be a killjoy…” Simon snorted. “Do we have a date in mind for the blessed event? Tom’s schedule is…”

I raised my hand. “Oh, oh…I know what Tom’s schedule is…it’s an insane MESS. Gee, wish there was an app for that or something. HA! Anyhow, you’ll have to double check, but I’m pretty sure that there is zero room for it to happen until late April or early May.”

Scrolling through his phone, Luke nodded. “You’re right. After the I Saw the Light press tour and premiere he’s got Night Manager promo until it airs in the states on April nineteenth. Really, the best month seems to be June.”

Tom spread his hands wide. “Well, that makes it simple. Let’s do it on the first anniversary of the day we met. June twenty-ninth. I think I can even squeeze in time for a honeymoon before heading to Australia to start in on Ragnarock.” He turned to me, brows raised, questioning. “Okay with you?”

My eyes met his, then roamed up and down over his form. This breathtakingly beautiful, kind, compassionate, intelligent, gifted, hilarious being…he was going to be my husband. I felt the tears creeping up on me again, but shook them off, breaking myself of the habit lest I, as Simon feared, kept crying every time I thought about marrying the man for the next eight months.

“Oh yeah. Totally okay with me. And shall I assume you had that planned all along as well?”

He laughed, throwing his head back, one hand on his abdomen, smirking adorably when he’d managed to compose himself. “No, actually…that one was totally off the cuff.”

“Sure it was.”

Laughing again, he grabbed my shoulders. “It was. I swear it.”

I sighed. “Well, if you swear it, I guess I should believe you. So…I know this will come as a shock, but …I’m STARVING. Birthday girl needs lunch. Feed birthday girl NOW.”

Tom pulled me close and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead. “How’s Kauai Pasta sound?”

“It sounds like you made reservations for four is how it sounds.” He smiled, licking his lips. “Which is awesome, because I am such a slut for Alfredo…”

Simon’s face appeared over Tom’s shoulder. “Oh, oh…can we please go over the list of things you’re a slut for? THERE ARE SO MANY…”

I flipped him off. “Please. Your list is so long it wouldn’t fit on my 32 gig USB drive.”

His eyes widened in mock horror. “My, my. She becomes some hot guy’s fiancé and her rudeness trebles. Unacceptable.”

Grinning, I turned my gaze back to Tom. “So, are we, like, done with surprises for the day? Because I’m not sure my heart can take another one. Though I do have a surprise of my own for YOU…”

“You do, do you? And what would that be?”

I patted his chest. “That would be my Halloween costume, babe. I fear you may not survive.”

He placed his hand over mine, leaning in so his face was inches from mine. “You do realize that you have not the slightest inkling as to what I’m wearing, don’t you?”

I didn’t. I’d been so focused on keeping mine under wraps I hadn’t considered HIS. And I was afraid to imagine, because the party now seemed an eternity away and if I let my mind wander…my mouth dropped open, then closed, opened, then closed again. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I am so, so fucked.”

A whisper in my ear. “Oh, you are indeed, my darling. You are indeed.”

#your light in the mist #chapter 34

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maplesamurai · 6 years

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The Witch’s Apprentice, Ch 7

Soon enough, and far too soon for the Butcher family, winter had come at last. The season’s snow had come as early as the last days of November, at first in the form of light flurries that melted in the sun as easily as the autumn frost, but by December’s second week, everything Arthur could see from the hilltop farmhouse was blanketed in snow, and icicles hung from every rooftop. In Arthur’s final month home, the hearth was kept burning all day round, putting the piles of firewood Arthur had diligently gathered in autumn to good use. But even in the dead of winter, there was still work to be done, and Arthur was happy to keep himself busy and thus his mind occupied away from the coming deadline.

As the root vegetables his family kept in the garden still grew in winter, Arthur continued tending and picking the turnips, onions and sprouts. While he now needed to be fully bundled up in his coat to do so, he also kept on working on whatever repairs that he not taken care of in the fall, mostly the barn, as he had greatly prioritised the house while his sister was still ill. It was around this time too, that the time came to slaughter the family’s hogs for much needed meat. It was also somewhat hard for Arthur and Morgan to part with the animals they had been tending to all year in such a way, but such was life on the farm.

What little free time Arthur had this time of year, he spent taking walks around town if it wasn’t too cold to go outside. He liked to take in the sights he had never fully appreciated, from the smoke rising from the townspeople’s chimneys, to the winter salmon leaping over the river rapids, and he also took the time to say his final goodbyes to everyone he knew outside of the family. Occasionally, he would still catch a flash of black out of the corner of his eye only to see a black feathered bird flying away when he turned to look, but by now he had grown oddly used to the possibility that his new mistress may be watching him.

On these walks, he would often invite Morgan or his parents to join him, wanting to spend as much time with them as possible while he still could. And it was his sister who accompanied him as he took his final walk among the town the day before the Solstice Eve, the sun slowly setting over the horizon.

The Solstice Festival proper would not begin until tomorrow night, but already Arthur and Morgan could take in the sights of the coming festivities. All across town, dwellings rich and poor were decorated with holly and ivy to ward off what darker spirits would roam in the dead of winter, and at the town square where months earlier the Butchers had sold their unexpected grain, priests of various gods tended the fire pit that would tomorrow night be lit for the festival bonfire. Lamp-posts illuminated the town roads, alight with flames enchanted by the local lord’s wizards to glow in all colours, while farmers wandering the streets spoke proudly of how large their sacrificial boars for the year had grown.

There were many holidays celebrating the Winter Solstice among the many cultures across the continent, but in the kingdom of Albion, the most widely practiced was the Festival of the Winter’s Hunt. When night fell on the eve of the Winter Solstice, the old legends said, the Elvenking would ride out of the Faerie Kingdom into the mortal world, followed the riders of the Wild Hunt, to judge each living soul they came across. Those the Elvenking judged as kind and virtuous, were said to be rewarded with gifts such as toys for children and coal to fuel a house’s hearth, left at one’s feet as the Wild Hunt invisibly rode past fast as the wind. Those judged as wicked and cruel, however, would be hunted and spirited away back to the fae realm, to what fate no one knew. These days, some would dismiss such tales as mere myth, only told to frighten children into behaving properly, but occasionally people would hear tell of those who ventured into the night on Solstice Eve never to be seen again, tales that convinced most to stay inside when the sun set this time of year.

Arthur’s family were always the sort to honour such traditions. After all, Arthur thought to himself as he looked among the ivy draped homes and the icy roads glistening under the light of dusk with his sister walking beside him, it certainly would not be the strangest of tales they discovered to be true as of late.

“You know, Arthur,” Morgan said to her brother as they continued to stroll past ivy draped homes, making sure to tread carefully on the icy roads, “I’m going to miss taking these walks with you once you’re gone. And I don’t think you’re going to see many sunsets like this inside that forest.”

“You said it,” Arthur sighed. “Part of me wishes I could just stay and spend all my remaining time just taking in the sights like this.”

“Well, careful now,” Morgan teasingly told her brother. “If you stay out too late, the Wild Hunt might come to spirit you away.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Arthur said with a shrug. “They shouldn’t arrive before tomorrow night. And besides,” he paused as he opened his hand to look at the Witch’s mark upon his palm, “I have the feeling they wouldn’t want to dispute a certain someone’s claim.”

Morgan looked at Arthur’s palm curiously, before saying, “You know, Arthur, it’s still weird knowing how you’ve got that mark on your palm when I still can’t see it.”

Arthur sighed. Just like the faeries that had accompanied the Witch’s healing spell, neither his parents nor Morgan had been able to see the mark on his palm. Melion had seen it when he arrived too late to stop Arthur’s bargain, but he was seemingly the only one other than Arthur or the Witch herself that was able to. He’d hoped to focus on the here and now and he came out for this final walk into town, but he couldn’t help but recall when he’d asked their Uncle Melion about the subject the day before he had left…

O – O – O

It was mid-afternoon on the day the Witch of the Woods had healed Morgan of the White Plague and restored the Butchers’ failed wheat to full health as well, on seemingly little more than a whim. After an unexpectedly busy morning of harvesting a whole field, one would think Arthur Butcher would be spending his free time at rest, but one would be wrong. Knowing how little time he had left among family, Arthur wanted to make that time count. And considering how little he could see his Uncle Melion even before the clock started ticking, Arthur wanted to take his uncle up on the offer he had declined the day prior.

So it was inside the Butchers’ family barn was Arthur and Melion were getting ready for the latest of the various sword fighting lessons Melion had given his nephew over the years. The two wooden practice swords the two used for these lessons were propped against the barn wall, ready to be wielded, but this time, the weapons were to wait a little longer. For this time, even as Arthur was putting on the gambeson shirt and padded helmet he wore over his clothes to these lessons, his sister was sat on a barrel next to him, not to watch the lesson as usual, but to continue to pester Melion about a certain subject…

“Ye’re really not gonna let up ‘til ah do it, are ye?” Melion sighed, clearly exasperated from his niece’s constant questions.

“Nope,” Morgan said happily.

“Okay, fine, ah can show it tae ye once.”

And with a sigh of frustration, Melion dropped down on all fours, and the fur cloak on his back enveloped his body, changing as his shape did, until the gigantic, but still human looking man was replaced with a sabre-toothed black-furred wolf as large as warhorse.

“There,” Melion growled. “Are ye happy, now?”

“Very happy,” Morgan confirmed. “Does it feel weird when you do that, though? You know, with your fur separating from your body and merging back with it whenever you change shape?”

“’Twas a bit strange at first, but ah’ve since grown used tae it,” Melion admitted, before turning back towards Arthur and telling him, “Ye just had tae tell her in front of everyone, didn’t ye, Arty?”

“Oh, I didn’t have to,” Arthur said, barely stifling a laugh, “but I’ve yet to regret doing so.”

“Of course ye don’t. Ah don’ suppose ye want tae ask anythin’ ‘bout this before we start yer lesson?”

“Well, there’s one thing I’d like to know before we start,” Arthur admitted. “Not about your enchantment, but about something that concerns the both of us.”

“Oh?” Melion asked curiously. “And wot might dat be?”

“Well, remember how back when the Witch healed Morgan, it seemed like only I could see those faerie like spirits she conjured? And back when I made the pact with her, she seemed surprised when I could see the magic of the contract.”

“So ye want tae know why we can see those things, but others can’t?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Well, ah don’t know much about magic meself,” Melion admitted as he made a circle to lay down on the floor as Arthur had seen ordinary dogs do before, “so this is mostly pieced together from wot ah’ve learned from me time with the Witch and from wot magi ah’ve met on me later travels have told me, but the gist of it is that most magical things, like fae and other spirits, are mostly invisible unless they want tae make themselves known. ‘Tis the same with the magical energy that flows through a mage’s spells and the like. Pretty much anyone with working eyes can see the end result of such things, but only certain people can see wot’s really doin’ the work tae get that result.”

“Okay,” Arthur replied, trying to wrap his head around the concept, “so what makes someone able to see magic, then?”

“Afraid ah can’t give ye all the answers tae that,” Melion admitted, “but wot ah’ve bin told is that some people are jus’ more sensitive tae these things than most. An’ that doesn’t just mean ye can either see ‘em or ye can’t; some folk can just sense the presence of magic an’ spirits an’ that’s it, some can only faintly see such things, and others see ‘em as clear as a cloudless sky.”

“And I’m guessing most magic users can see these things, right? It seems that would be an important part of their craft.”

“Aye. In fact, some wizards ah’ve met have said the Sight’s usually the first hint that someone’s got mage talent. It’s not always the case, though.”

This made Arthur curious. Could this possibly mean he could use magic himself if he learned how? Probably not, he decided, since he’d never seemed to be able to so much as sour a cup of milk. Still, it was certainly an interesting prospect, even if it was just wishful thinking.

“The gift can also be more’re less common dependin’ on a whole bunch of factors, like where ye live, wot lineage ye come from, the circumstances of yer birth, or wot creature ye are, as well. Most animals can sense magic around ‘em, fer example.”

“Speaking from experience?” Morgan remarked.

“Don’t be rude, Morgan,” Arthur sternly reprimanded his sister.

“S’ fine Arty, ah’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it,” Melion reassured the both of them. “’Sides, that’s partly true at least. Sure, we wargs are still a people in our own right, with our own language and laws, but we’re still closer tae common beasts than most races are, and our awareness of the magical world be no exception. Anyway, that’s how ah was ‘fore ah met the Witch.”

“And that changed when you became a skinchanger?”

“Aye. Ye see, one of the other things ah know ‘bout the whole deal is that inherently magical creatures can see magic, whether yer born as one, or become one later in life. So once ah made that pact with her, ah started being able tae see clearly wot I’d been sensin’ me whole life.”

“Okay, that explains a few things,” Arthur said, “but I’ve only started to be able to see these things now. If I have this Sight, why haven’t I seen any kind of fae before this? I’ve even seen the lord’s wizards do their magic, but I’ve never seen a flash of magical energy come from them when they cast their spells like I have with the Witch. So why am I only seeing these things now?”

“Honestly, Arty?” Melion said with the closest thing his canine shoulders could give to a shrug, “Beats me. Ah’ve heard that some folk don’t gain the Sight ‘til later in life, and there’s still others where their magic senses come and go, but ah’ve never been told why. Maybe ye’re just one of those cases, but ah’ve already told ye everythin’ ah know fer sure ‘bout the subject. Sorry if it don’ help ye much.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Arthur sighed. “I at least know more now than I did before I asked, so it’s not like I lost anything out of it.”

“Glad tae know ye’re always eager tae learn,” as he stood back up and changed back to his human shape, his furred pelt returning to the form of his fur cloak. “Speakin’ of learnin’, how ‘bout we get started on yer newest lesson. We don’ know when I can next give ye one ‘fore ye go, so ah’ll be sure tae teach ye some of the good moves.”

Eagerly, Arthur picked up one of the practice swords leaning against the wall, and his uncle made it over to grasp the other one. Then the master and student made their way to the mock ring at the center of the barn’s open space, and each made a ready stance opposite of each other.

“Well?” Melion asked his nephew, “are ye ready tae begin?”

“Ready when you are, Uncle,” Arthur replied, and both men drew their weapons…

O – O – O

Sighing as he closed his fist and lowered his hand, Arthur looked back to Morgan and said, “Maybe it’s for the best you can’t see these things. It hasn’t exactly helped me, after all…”

Placing her hand on her brother’s shoulder, Morgan replied, “Don’t you start moping again. We’ve got your farewell party to look forward to, so let’s live in the moment while we still can, okay?”

“If you say so. Speaking of which, you want to head home? I don’t want to be late to my own party.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

As the two started to walk home, Arthur asked Morgan, “I know we just promised not to dwell on these things, but I have to ask… do you think you’re going to be okay after I’m gone?”

“Don’t worry,” Morgan sighed, “I should be fine. I’ll probably have less free time since I’ll have to cover your duties around here, but I guess I’ll grow to live with it. It’s not like I’ve been doing my tinkering all that much, anyway.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed you haven’t been working on your contraptions as often lately,” Arthur replied. “What’s with that?”

With a deep sigh, Morgan began, “This… isn’t easy for me to talk about.”

“It’s okay; you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s something I’ve been keeping to myself for a while, and I ought to let it off my chest before you go.”

“Alright, so what is it you want to tell me?”

“Well… I never really wanted to spend the rest of my life on the farm. Don’t get me wrong, I like living with you, and Ma and Pa, but farming’s not something I want to do for the rest of my life, you know? But tinkering around with clock parts and stuff has always been something I’ve really loved doing more than anything. So I thought one day, I’d leave the farm, join a clockworker’s guild, and do that kind of work for a living. Sure, we don’t have one here in town, but I figured I could move to the nearest city and join one there. That way, I wouldn’t be too far from home if I ever wanted to come back for a visit, or I could just stop by if I was ever travelling through the area on guild business.”

After a moment to let it sink in, Arthur asked, “Why didn’t you ever tell any of us this before now?”

“I didn’t think I needed to be in any hurry is all. I just figured you’d be around to inherit the farm when our folks passed on, so it wouldn’t be that big a deal if I wanted to do something else with my life. But then I got sick, and it seemed pointless to bring up my dreams for the future when it looked like I didn’t have any future left. And then you made that pact to save me, and now it looks like it’ll be up to me to keep the place running once our folks are gone.”

“Morgan… I’m sorry.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it. If you hadn’t have done what you did, I probably wouldn’t even be here today, so I guess it wasn’t meant to be either way. It was just a dream, anyway.”

“I’ll… take your word for it. I’ve never really had any dreams or ambitions, myself. I was always satisfied to just tending our farm my whole life. So I guess neither of us got what we really wanted in the end, huh?”

The two siblings shared a regretful sigh as they passed through the town gates and began making their way up the road to the Butcher farmhouse, before Morgan asked her brother, “Promise me something, Arthur?”

“Sure, anything.”

“Neither of us can mope for the rest of the night. The last thing our parents need is their son being a wet blanket for his own farewell party.”

“I should be able to manage that just fine,” Arthur replied back with a smile. “After all, you’re the one who broke our agreement to live in the moment.”

“Okay, you’ve got me there,” Morgan laughed as they began to walk uphill. “But promise anyway, please?”

“Okay, I promise.”

Eventually, the two made it up the hill and saw the lit windows of the family farmhouse. However, as they approached the house, the two saw a large, familiar silhouette just at the door, recognisable even through the falling snow.

“Uncle Melion!” Arthur called, running towards his uncle at full speed as Melion himself turned around to greet him, soon followed by his sister.

Upon hearing Arthur yell his name, Melion, seeming to be carrying a barrel attached to his back, turned his back to the door, and with a broad smile across his face, opened his arms to accept a great big hug from his niece and nephew.

“I’m so glad you could come!” Arthur said happily, embracing his uncle tightly.

“Wot, ye thought ah’d miss me favourite nephew’s goin’ away party?” Melion laughed heartily. “Ah wouldn’t miss this fer tae world!”

“Glad to hear it Uncle,” Morgan said to Melion as she joined the embrace as well, before noticing the small barrel her uncle had strapped to her back and asking, “What’s that you’ve got on your back?”

As he finished laughing, Melion looked down to Morgan and answered her, “Oh, this? Just a cask of ale ah picked up on me way here to liven up the party. An’ how’ve ye been, Morgan? Takin’ it easy like ah asked?”

“Well, I did say no promises, didn’t I?”

“Well, ah’d hoped ye’d honour me request fer yer folks’ sakes…”

“Did you honour Pa’s request to play it safe on the job?”

After a long, awkward silence, Melion broke his embrace with Arthur and Morgan and said, “Well, let’s not stand here in tae cold! We’ve got a party tae get tae!”

“That’s what I thought,” Morgan said with an impish grin.

It was then that the front door opened, and Melion turned around to see his brother Harold greeting the three of them.

“Glad you could make it, Mel,” Harold welcomed his adoptive brother. “And I see you’ve brought the man of the hour back to his own party. So since we’ve got everyone here now, would you three like to come in and join the party?”

Melion looked own to Arthur for the answer to that, who smiled and asked, “When do we start?”

O – O – O

While the Butchers’ household was nowhere near as extravagantly decorated as the town proper had been, but for Arthur’s last Solstice, it was simply breathtaking. A holly wreath had been hung above the door, and the rafters above everyone’s heads were draped with vines of ivy, which hung low enough to nearly graze the top of Melion’s head. A roaring fire had been lit in the hearth, a thick log burning at its center, making the house as warm as a home of peasant farmers could hope to be this deep into winter. In lieu of the magically coloured fires that lit the town square, upon every table in the house stood a lantern with coloured glass that cast light of all colours about the house to the same effect. The smell of a hot Solstice dinner wafted to the door all the way from the kitchen, carrying the scent of roast ham, mashed potatoes, and sauce of plum and redcurrant alike.

“Now, this be a sight,” Melion mused as he walked in. “No matter how far ah’ve traveled, no matter wot wonders ah’ve beheld, nothing ah’ve seen ever beats a good Solstice at home.”

“I’m glad to hear you approve, Melion,” Summer said with a smile as she stepped out of the kitchen with a cooking apron over her outfit. “A Happy Solstice to you.”

“And tae ye all as well! Say, is this old wolf’s nose deceiving me or does it smell like tae night’s dinner’s coming along well?”

“Indeed it is, although you should be asking Arthur that,” Summer sighed as she handed her husband a pot of boiled greens to bring to the dinner table. “He cooked most of it. Harold and I were just taking over while he and Morgan stepped out for a walk.”

“Really, Arty?” Melion laughed as Arthur himself made his way into the kitchen and grabbed himself a cooking apron hanging off of the wall. “They’re making ye cook the dinner fer yer own party?”

“It certainly wasn’t our idea,” Summer sighed as she helped place the plum and redcurrant sauces on the table while Arthur opened the oven behind her to retrieve the roast boar. “Arthur was adamant about cooking the Solstice dinner. He was even hesitant to take that last walk into town until Morgan insisted he let us take over for a time.”

“Yeah, well, you guys have always said you’ve liked my cooking,” Arthur replied as he pulled the boar out of the oven and carried it to the dinner table. “So I wanted to take this last opportunity to let you all enjoy it before I have to go tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry too much about it, Arthur,” Morgan said as she followed her brother to the table, carrying the pot of mashed potatoes. “I’ll be sure to take over your share of the cooking when you’re gone. It’ll probably take a bit of trial and error to get as good as you, though.”

Arthur shuddered as he placed the roast boar on the table. If there was only one thing he would not miss about his old life, it was Morgan’s cooking. He had sampled his sister’s past attempts in the culinary arts, and while he would never say as such to her face, from then on, every time she expressed interest in cooking the night’s meal he wondered if the family hogs would be willing to share their slop with him instead. At least, he thought, he would seldom be around to taste her future attempts.

Arthur did not linger on that thought for long, as before the minute had passed, the whole Solstice dinner was on the table and ready to eat. Once the family was seated, everyone was given a wooden mug and their fill from the cask of ale that Melion had brought with him, even Morgan.

Looking at her mother, Morgan asked, “Not gonna raise an objection to this, Ma? No reminders that I’m still underage for the next three months?”

“Well, it’s a special occasion, so I can make a second exception,” Summer said before taking a sip from her own mug. “Just don’t expect a third time before your birthday in the coming year.”

And so, the Butcher family dug in to their meal. The family enjoyed their food and drink, which was followed by a dessert of Solstice pudding once the meal was finished, they sang songs together, and listened to Melion weave bombastic tales about his recent adventures (which were probably more than a bit embellished) as the hours passed by, and before long, the moon had risen high into the sky, shining its light through the house windows with only hours to spare before the true Solstice Eve truly began at midnight.

It was then, as the Butcher family sat in front of the roaring fire, that Harold Butcher stood up to make an announcement to his son.

“Arthur,” he began, “we know you don’t normally expect much in the way of gifts this time of year, but given how this is your last Solstice here… each of us has gotten you something as a farewell present.”

This was a surprise to Arthur. It was true that, because of the family’s lack of wealth, he and Morgan rarely received much in the way of presents. If their parents could afford to gift anything at all, it was usually something collectively given to both children, and if they were lucky enough to have to have Melion visit during the Solstice, he would bring Arthur and Morgan each something that he picked up during his travels, but that was all they could usually expect. So if he was receiving a gift from everyone here, then they truly were making every attempt to make his last Solstice count.

“I…” Arthur began, taking a look at everyone around him, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Ye’ll have time to find the words when ye open yer presents,” Melion told him as he made his way to a wooden chest by the door and opened it, taking out three gifts bound in string and brown wrapping paper, while taking another such gift out of his bags and walking back towards Arthur’s seat, handing him the first of the packages, a short and narrowly shaped one. “This first one be from yer old man.”

“Well, thank you,” Arthur said as he began to tear the paper off of the package. “Thank all of you, really. I never expected you’d do all of this for me.”

“Don’t thank us all, just yet,” Morgan told him as Arthur finished opening his first present. “Just thank us one at a time as you open them.”

Looking down into the unwrapped present in his hands, Arthur saw that it was a sheathed foraging knife with a pale wooden handle, which he carefully unsheathed to reveal a curved, silvery blade.

“Your mother and I have been thinking of what to get you for a while,” Harold explained to his son. “After quite a few scrapped ideas, we thought it would be best to each get you something that would come in useful in your new job, so we can still be with you in spirit after you’ve gone. I remembered that witch saying she’ll need you to go out and gather things for her, so I hope this foraging knife will come in handy for that.”

“I’m sure it will,” Arthur replied. “Thank you, Pa.”

Sheathing the new knife and placing it on the small table beside his chair, Arthur began to open the gift signed by his mother, which was flat and vaguely square shaped and felt soft under the packaging. Arthur guessed from the feel that it was an article of clothing of some variety, which was confirmed when he opened it to reveal a dark lime green cloak just his size.

“I know it’s a bit cliché for a mother to worry about her child being caught in bad weather,” Summer began, “but I can’t help it. You’re no doubt going to working outdoors in that forest, and I doubt that new employer of yours is going to give you a day off because of rain. I also thought to pick a colour that might hopefully help you elude the gaze of that wood’s more dangerous inhabitants.”

“Thanks, Ma,” Arthur smiled. “I’m sure it’ll help me avoid situations like my first venture into that place.”

While giving a slight shudder at the reminder that her son was nearly eaten by a monster that one time, Summer gave Arthur a warm smile and a nod, telling him, “You’re very welcome.”

“How about you open mine next?” Morgan suggested. “It’s something I’ve actually been working on myself, and I’ve been waiting since I finished it last month to see what you think of it.”

Curious as to what Morgan could be referring to, Arthur began to open the gift signed with Morgan’s name, which revealed a hinged wooden box, which Arthur opened too. But when he saw what was inside, he only barely managed to hold back his tears. Lying atop a linen cushioning in the box was what looked like a brass clockwork bird about the size of a chicken egg, with a wind up key in its back.

“Morgan…” Arthur breathed as he took the bird-like contraption out of its box, “you made this yourself?”

“Yeah,” Morgan replied, seeming somewhat embarrassed. “It’s called an ornithopter. I read about them in a book on clockwork inventions at the town library once, so I wanted to sort of try my hand at making one. I’d gotten started on it before I got sick, and by the time I got back to working on it, I was already thinking of what I could get you for your going away present, so the timing just sort of worked out in the end.”

Arthur legitimately didn’t know what to say. Just today Morgan had told him of her dream of becoming a clockwork inventor that she now had to give up, and here she had given him something she had planned to build as part of working towards that goal. He realised that his sister must have poured her heart and soul into building this gift for him… and he couldn’t help about feel guilty about it, even if he made sure not to show it on his face.

“’Ornithopter?’” Harold inquired. “Is that some fancy word for a metal bird?”

“Not really,” Morgan began to correct her father, “but it’s not entirely wrong, either. It refers to a kind of machine that’s built to mimic how birds- you know, it’s better to show you all. Arthur, put it on the floor and wind up the key, and you’ll see what it does.”

Curious to see what his sister meant despite his guilt, Arthur got out of his chair and kneeled down on the floor, gently placing the ornithopter down there, and wound the key clockwise two times. In barely a second, the tiny machine unfurled its wings, which appeared to be a framework like a bat’s wings with the gaps filled by a cloth membrane, and to everyone but Morgan’s amazement, immediately flapped those wings and began to fly. It only barely rose an inch above the floor and covered about half a foot of distance before it landed again, but it was still unlike anything any of them had seen.

“Morgan,” Arthur breathed, mouth agape in astonishment, “that’s incredible!”

“Thanks, but I don’t think it’s as great as it could be if I had more time to work on it,” Morgan said modestly. “It can fly up to just under two feet, if you wind the key all the way. I’m actually kind of disappointed that I couldn’t get it to go farther.”

“Don’t sell yerself short, now!” Melion contested Morgan with a hearty laugh. “Ah’ve seen the work of clockworkers’ guilds in big cities far and wide, and they’d be lucky tae have someone talented as you workin’ fer ‘em!”

Arthur couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable about that comment, no matter how well-meaning Melion was when he made it. It seemed true that no one else knew about the dream Morgan had given up so she could pick up the slack in Arthur’s coming absence. Even Morgan seemed to visibly wince at being reminded of that fact, which the others noticed.

“Morgan?” Summer asked with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s nothing!” Morgan lied to reassure them. “I… I’m just really glad Arthur likes it, that’s all.”

Attempting to change the subject, Morgan continued, “But enough about me, why don’t we top off the evening with Arthur opening whatever Melion got for him?”

Arthur, just as eager to move on from a subject that was surely distressing his sister, did just that, moving on to what had first appeared to be a strangely shaped package signed with Melion’s barely legible signature, but upon closer inspection, was actually two packages tied together; one long and narrow, and the other short and rectangular.

“Two presents?” Arthur said in surprise. “Uncle, you didn’t have to-“

“Don’ tell me I don’ have tae do these things fer ye,” Melion interrupted his nephew. “Like yer folks, ah wanted tae give ye somethin’ ye’d get some use outta, and I jus’ happened tae git me hands on two things that should serve ye well in that forest. So no more complainin’ ‘bout it, jus’ go and open ‘em, Arty.”

Arthur opened the smaller of the two, which turned out to be a rather thick book entitled, A Manual of Monsters: The Comprehensive Guide to Magical Beasts & Spirits, by Albertus Magnus.

“As ye no doubt remember from last time,” Melion explained as Arthur flipped through the tome’s pages to view the vividly illustrated magical beasts accompanying the detailed descriptions on such creatures, “the forest ye’ll be workin’ in is home tae all sorts of dangerous creatures, so ah thought ye could use a guide on what tae expect in there and how tae avoid comin’ across ‘em. Ah’m not exactly a book lover meself, but luckily ah meet quite a few experts on such beasts in me line of work, so ah asked an old associate of mine tae recommend a guidebook that’s up tae date enough tae be useful, while still simple enough that ye don’t need to spend a few years at some royal university tae read it.”

“Thanks, Uncle. I’m sure this will prove invaluable.”

“Aye, it should be full of useful tidbits like not walkin’ in tae a basilisk’s lair,” Melion said with a wink.

“Hey, in my defense, I didn’t know what a basilisk’s lair looked like,” Arthur half-jokingly protested.

“Well, now ye can look it up in that there book tae find out.”

“And I was also trying to hide from a pack of wargs that had just come out of nowhere to kill a giant boar!”

“Wot, and ye think it’d be worth it for ‘em to chase after a lone, measly human after expendin’ all the effort it takes tae chase one of those brutes down?” Melion laughed. “’Sides, speakin’ as a warg meself, they’d probably be full after that. Those boars can easily feed a whole pack, but ye’d barely qualify as a snack, methinks.”

“Can we please talk about something else?” Summer sternly asked the two, clearly not fond of how filling a meal her son would be as a topic of conversation.

“Fair enough,” Melion conceded. “So why don’ ye open yer second one, Arty?”

Arthur did so, opening the long, narrow gift, which turned out to be a tool that Arthur had become very familiar with thanks to his uncle: a sheathed arming sword.

“Ah know how las’ time we discussed this, ah said how ah wasn’t teachin’ ye how to handle one of these so ye could go into that forest. But now, looks like that’s exactly wot ye’ll be needin’ one for.”

Cautiously, Arthur took pulled the blade out of its scabbard and examined it. It was a double edged blade just the length of his forearm, with a short, straight crossguard, underneath which extended a black leather grip ending in a triangular pommel. But what was most striking about the blade, Arthur found, was that the sword was not made of steel, like he might have guessed, but pure iron.

“Why give me an iron sword?” Arthur inquired his uncle. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything, but I’m curious why that instead of steel.”

“And under any other circumstances, ah would’ve given ye a steel blade, but here’s the thing,” Melion explained. “There’s more in that wood ye need tae worry ‘bout than just beasts of the flesh. There’s also fae and spirits that can be more easily deterred by iron than steel.”

“I…” Arthur stammered as he slid the sword back in his scabbard, once again fully reminded of what he had gotten himself into when he made his bargain. “Thanks, Uncle.”

But after Arthur had put down the sword with the rest of his presents, tears began to well up in Arthur’s eyes, and he began to cry.

“Arthur?” Summer asked her son worriedly, getting out of her chair to be by his side, “what’s wrong?”

“It’s…” Arthur sniffed. “It’s a lot of things. A lot of things wrong and a lot of things right, too.”

As everyone gathered around Arthur’s chair, he continued, “I’m… I’m really grateful to all of you, you know?”

“Don’t mention it, lad,” Harold reassured his son as he placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s your last Solstice here, so we needed to make it count.”

“I don’t just mean for this, but for everything. We’ve never had much, but you’ve all still done everything you can for me and more, even as our home’s been falling apart.”

“Arthur, dear,” his mother told him, “you don’t need to thank us for doing what a family should do.”

“You’re probably right,” Arthur said sadly. “But it still just reminds me of how I threw it all away.”

“Look Arthur, I’m still not thrilled about what you did either,” Morgan told him. “But I probably wouldn’t even be here today if you didn’t. Besides, remember how you promised no more moping tonight?”

“Yeah, well it’s my party,” Arthur told his sister with a tearful grin, “and I’ll cry if I want to.”

“C’mere, Arty,” Melion said softly as he pulled his nephew up to give him a great, big hug, which was quickly joined by his sister, and then his parents.

“Thanks,” Arthur sniffed, “for giving me the best going away party I could have asked for… and being the best family I could have asked for.”

“Don’t thank us, dear,” Summer told her son.

“After all,” Harold added, “we couldn’t have done it without the best son we could have asked for.”

“Or the best nephew,” Melion added.

“Or the best brother,” Morgan topped it all off with.

But eventually, this night too came to an end, and the Butchers tired and made their way to their beds, wishing each other a good night and a happy Solstice for their final night as a complete family in this house.

All in all, Arthur supposed as he lied down to sleep the last night he would spend in his own bed, this had been the best Solstice party that he could have asked for.

But the fact that it was to be his last made this night all the more bittersweet.

#witch #witchblr #the witch's apprentice #fantasy #original fiction #my writing

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relaxedreptile · 7 years

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Baby, It’s Cold Outside

A/N: Okay, so, my apologies.

This was requested maybe three months ago? But I am severely behind on fulfilling these requests from you guys. Slowly but surely, I will have them all finished so don't you worry.

Also, the original request for this wanted smut, but I am content with the way this went so I’m going to keep it the way it already is. Forgive me?

Stay warm.

“With the bridge closed and most, if not all,” the newscaster paused and let out a laugh that oddly reminded you of the Wizard of Oz, “of the roads closed, it doesn’t seem how anyone could find a way in or out of the city. “I don’t know, Catherine, I always keep a spare set of tennis racquets in my car. You think I could tie them to my shoes and make my way home?”

Catherine was cut off mid-laugh by your TV clicking off on its own accord, which elicited a loud groan from your mouth full of popcorn. You expected this much, so you used the light of your phone screen to act as a guide to your box of matches and off to your scented candles. You had searched your home for six of the biggest candles with scents that wouldn’t overwhelm your nose once they mixed throughout your home, but you supposed you couldn’t be too picky.

You had always loved the holidays. It was the perfect mix of exciting, high-powered activities and a relaxed stature throughout the city. While you were devastated your parent’s flight was cancelled due to this snowstorm that had also cancelled your night-in with Naruto on Hulu, you decided you could enjoy this night without technology. It’s not like this night was unplanned considering everyone had known about the storm a few days prior due to its enormous size and not very subtle footprint on whatever system meteorologists used to determine how fucked the holiday season would be. Hopefully reading by candlelight wasn’t going to permanently damage your eyes or something, you didn’t really have the money for that kind of thing at the moment.

You had finished lighting your candles and sat back on your couch, eyes following the lights and shadows as they danced across your walls in a waltz.

A sigh escaped your lips as you relaxed farther into your plush coach, deciding to sing along to a song that had been stuck in your head since November 1st.

“I really can’t stay.” A whiff of “ocean breeze” whizzed past your nose. “Get over that hold out.” This time it was “autumn leaves”. “Ah, but it’s cold outside.” Was that cinnamon? “Baby it’s cold, out-”

The sound of three soft, polite knocks on the door to your apartment startled you out of your harmonizing stupor, your legs forcing you out of your comfort zone and out onto the floor that had already begun to grow cold after a few minutes of your cheap heater switching off.

You wrapped your arms around yourself to retain the warm you had left and shuffled over to your door, sliding across the floor on your fuzzy socks.

“Oh, thank god.”

The man at your door greeted you with a smile that reminded you of the homemade moonshine your uncle used to make for special occasions, the way they warmed your body were way too similar.

“Hi,” you greeted your neighbor… Baekhyun. That was his name. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Y/N,” first name basis with your cute neighbor? Merry Christmas to you, “but I just ran home in that fucking blizzard out there and here I was, completely prepared to heat up some water for a bath on my stove for all I cared, until I realized that I left my keys back on my desk. At my office.” You thought that was all the explanation he needed to offer but Baekhyun interrupted you before you could invite him in.

“I hate to ask this of you so close to the holidays. For all I know you could have family with you, but I guess I have no other choice,” his laugh was short, but sweet. “I only need an hour or two I-”

“You can stay, it’s completely fine with me.” You opened your door wider, hoping it resembled a warm invitation. “Just don’t blow out any candles.”

Baekhyun offered another bigger smile, one that left sparks flying through your body and festering in your stomach.

With a smile like that, you wouldn’t have been able to deny him entry no matter the circumstances, so you were glad that you had met this man (and even his dog) before and were comfortable with him being in your home rather than ten feet across the hall.

Despite you living in this building for close to a year (and Baekhyun for one year more, as he told you when you first moved in), you and your cute neighbor hadn’t made it past small-talk and the only obscure facts you knew about the guy was the fact that he had a brother, had a passion for singing, and his dog’s name was Mongryong.

It was simultaneously better than nothing and enough for you to let him into your home, to allow him access to everything in your possession. Including you.

“I promise I’ll be out of your business as soon as the roads clear up and I can get back to the office, the landlord said he wouldn’t make it out onto the roads until they were plowed. I figured I should risk it myself.”

You nodded in response, not sure why he was repeating himself. It was the holidays, after all, it couldn’t hurt to be a little more giving. Lenient.

“I don’t exactly have a fire place you can hang out by, but I do have a gas stove if you want me to make us some hot chocolate?”

Baekhyun halted in peeling off his soaked socks (him and his dress shoes were not prepared for the snow) and nodded at you before asking if you had marshmallows.

“Whipped cream alright?” You answered with, already heading into your kitchen. “Yeah, yeah, that’s great. Thanks, Y/N.” “Any time, Baekhyun, what are neighbors for?” “I guess for coming in handy when dumbasses like me screw themselves over,” he joked, following far behind you.

A laugh escaped your lips. “Oh please, if I had work today and hadn’t stayed home, I probably would’ve done the same thing.” “Then we’d both be screwed,” Baekhyun pointed out, “but I’m sure we could figure something out. My coat is probably big enough for the both of us.” You were glad that your blush wasn’t visible in the candlelight. “With those shoulders of yours? I wouldn’t fit.”

You allowed yourself to speak with a flirty tone, hoping you hadn’t read his remark about the coat wrong.

“How about you sit between my legs and I wrap my arms around us?”

Okay, he was definitely flirting back.

“All this talk has me wishing I lost my keys as well,” you admitted, not even bothering to lie for the sake of flirting. “There’s always next year.”

You smiled and continued stirring the powder-water mixture, watching the tiny marshmallows that were included in the mix bob up and down in the pot.

The silence was a tad awkward, one wouldn’t lie, but it was to be expected with the relationship between you and your neighbor. Despite the lack of words, the feeling he brought into your home was comforting. Especially with the environment outside of your candlelit apartment being oh so cold and dark.

Baekhyun offered a thank you as he took the steaming mug of liquid from you, licking the edge of the rim as some of the whipped cream started to slip down the side. Your eyes followed the movement of his tongue.

Your lips closed around the edge of your own cup and willed the liquid to slide down your throat, welcoming the slight burn as it went down.

“This cup of hot chocolate is the most Christmassy thing I’ve done in years,” Baekhyun admitted, wrapping both hands around his mug. “I’m glad I had the honor of getting you into the Christmas spirit,” you joked, smiling at your neighbor incase he needed some comfort. “You’re expecting a sob story, I can tell.”

You ignored Baekhyun’s implication and took a rather long sip of your drink.

“Busy?” You guessed. Baekhyun’s nod was the saddest thing you had seen all day. “How about every year you set aside like, twenty minutes to come drink some hot chocolate with me? Completely on the house.”

The man in front of you scrunched his lips in thought, considering the offer you both knew he would say yes to.

“I’ll bring some marshmallows next time.”

“How many times, Baekhyun?” “Just three!” “Oh, I’m sorry, you only got arrested three-” “No building off of our secrets! You set that rule yourself.”

You bit down on your lip and shook your head, disappointed at the fact that your houseguest refused to elaborate on his criminal record.

“Come on, Y/N,” Baekhyun teased, “your turn.”

To ease your boredom, your neighbor had suggested playing what he called “girly slumber party games” to pass the time. You readily agreed, hoping for something racy like spin the bottle (even though that barely works out even when you have more than two people), but settled on truth or dare.

Once the two of you realized that wasn’t going to go anywhere, you suggested going back and forth between asking the person for a secret or a story, no questions asked and no further explanation needed. The two of you required secrets for such a long streak that it was now just a given that that was what the other player wanted from you.

Your body contorted into the “thinker” position, hoping to pull a smile or a giggle from the attractive man sitting opposite from you. Your actions rewarded you with both.

“I went to cotillion for three years.” “Cotillion? I don’t-” “It’s an American thing. It’s these classes over-bearing parents send their kids to so that they can learn how to be “proper”. Table manners, how to court, dancing-” “Why is dancing included in proper behavior?” “Slow-dancing. Waltz.”

Baekhyun seemed to be deep in thought about this, his eyes showing the inner battle deep in his mind.

You better get a good secret in return for further elaboration (even if it was on cotillion and not you).

“Show me.”

Your head snapped up to make eye contact with this beautiful man who continued to make your cheeks flush and the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

Baekhyun could see that you were a bit confused by his outburst, so he decided to confuse yo further by jumping to his feet and outstretching his hand in your direction.

You took his hand out of instinct and tried to remain as graceful as possible when you were yanked upwards and immediately towards your Christmas tree that was between your favorite parts of your apartment, two floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed you and your guest a gorgeous view of the snow capped city below.

“You said you can dance, show me.” “I didn’t say I knew how, I just said that I learned.” “Well now I want to learn! Usually I would jump on YouTube and figure it out but since I can’t at the moment and you’re right here…” When Baekhyun realized you weren’t budging, he pursed his lips into a full blown pout and cocked his head to the side. “Please?”

You blamed the holidays for you acting so lenient towards this man.

You showed him where to put his hands on your body (each placement sending shivers down your completely covered spine) and explained the counts, repeating “one, two, three” for the first few rounds, smiling proudly when Baekhyun seemed to pick this up in no time.

Was it your expert teaching or did this guy have a better idea of this beforehand than he let on?

“All we need now is some music,” you decided, leaning to rest your head on your dancing partner’s shoulder, thinking of how your old instructor would have gasped at how improper said behavior was.

Your comment was met with a silence that was first interrupted by the deep vibration within Baekhyun’s chest.

“I really can’t stay.”

Silence.

“I’ve got to go away.”

Smile.

“This evening has been,” you sang in your current position. “Been hoping that you’d drop in,” Baekhyun continued. “So very nice.” “I’ll hold your hands, they’re just like ice.”

You couldn’t believe how stupid that sounded to you. No matter how much snow piled up outside, no matter how low the temperature dropped, you felt warm. You felt safe.

It’s cold outside, but you feel perfectly fine.

#byun baekhyun #baekhyun #baekhyun fluff #baekhyun angst #baekhyun smut #stranger!baekhyun #exo fanfiction #exo #exo fluff #exo angst #exo smut #happy holidays #I hope all is well #rr:byun baekhyun

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perfectirishgifts · 4 years

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In Her Own Words: Why I Still Believe In My Business Despite COVID-19

New Post has been published on https://perfectirishgifts.com/in-her-own-words-why-i-still-believe-in-my-business-despite-covid-19/

In Her Own Words: Why I Still Believe In My Business Despite COVID-19

Daphne Chen Matthews fell into her independent career reinvention at one of the most nerve-wracking financial moments in the 21st century: just as COVID-19 shut everything down, funds froze. Most if not all businesses entered into a longstanding season of uncertainty about what the future might bring.

Chen Matthews had no alternative but to stay the course and hatched a plan to utilize the skills she already had to craft the career she wanted as a consultant. Before striking out on her own, Chen Matthews, 45, spent two decades in the banking industry, where she last held the Senior Counsel position. Rather than spin her wheels in the fallout from COVID-19, Chen Matthews set to work and got her name and specialty out into the world. Her goal: to help clients “think like a bank lawyer” and put those lessons into everyday practice.

“I take the best company and bank practices and apply them to other industries that may have similar rules,” she says.

This past spring, she also became the newest board member at the Center for Art Law.

“My business gave me the platform to be on a panel about the ABCs of art law, where my segment was on applying best banking practices to art, in terms of fraud detection and money laundering prevention,” she says.

She wrote about reinvention earlier in the year and shared a few snippets from her journey. Edited excerpts are below.

“Once upon a time, my financial advisor pled with me to allocate more of my IRA into equity, and I crossed my arms and adamantly said it was “too risky.” As far as I was concerned, he could place half of it in fixed income. We landed on a portfolio that was “suitable for someone a little older than me.” That decision probably saved my retirement account from tanking in the last few months, but also did not move the needle much in the past few years.

I have never been a gambling person, being risk-averse my entire life. I even have a ceramic piggy bank. It is pink, with the words “Always a Princess” painted on it, and filled with quarters (come on, let’s be practical. I want my money to grow!). I began saving for the proverbial rainy day early on in my adulthood. I contributed to my 401(k) plan the moment I got my first corporate job. I made sure the allocations were conservative, and I sent a part of each paycheck into savings. I went to law school at night because I wanted to make sure I had a continuous income stream during the day.

In the fall of 2019, I unexpectedly left what I considered a stable lifetime career, in-house counsel for a large financial institution. It came as a shock because I thought the risky jobs were client-facing or ones slowly being replaced with automation, not legal or compliance. I took a few months to enjoy my free time, plan for the holidays, and prepare for my November wedding.

When the new year came around, I thought the jobs would be plentiful, and the search would be invigorating. While in a positive mindset, I decided to launch my legal and consulting business and look for my next opportunity. I attended conferences, networking events, and workshops. When the COVID-19 lockdowns started happening, I admit I did not know what to do. The stock market plunged. I was warned not to look at my investments. I was told, “now is not a good time.” “No one is hiring.” “No one is going to buy anything right now.” “The playing field has been leveled,” and that I ‘needed to stand in line.’”

I tell people to “Think Like A Bank Lawyer.” Each bank has its risk and compliance teams, legal teams, and various factors before deciding on a business piece. Risk management is about weighing the options. How can your business grow, taking into consideration the legal, commercial, and sometimes reputation risks?

I saw the economic devastation of 9/11 and the 2008 financial crisis, and I was lucky at that time to be spared any cutbacks. Both times I became remarkably busy at work, and I patted myself on the back for my career choice in a mid-level support function.

You are supposed to grow wiser with age. After my initial panic in March, I reached deep down and pulled out that version of me, ten years ago, twenty years ago, and have been repeating what I told others, “What goes down must come up,” and “There is opportunity in chaos.” I applied my banking lens to the situation. Now is the time to create my Personal Compliance Program. Turns out, you can have a Personal Compliance Program for any goal: saving for retirement, fitness, running a marathon, starting a business. An effective compliance program includes procedures, risk assessments, monitoring/accountability, and remedial actions.

My rainy day has come, but like most people, I am watching my budget, standing in line at the grocery store and exclaiming to the person next to me how the beef chuck is now as expensive as the sirloin. I keep online shopping to the essentials. My poor cats haven’t had a new toy in months. That is part of the procedure. I am my own accountability partner, although I reach out to friends to keep me in check. I have already done the risk assessment, so I am continuing to build the business. As for remedial actions, let’s say I’m still thinking like a bank.”

From Entrepreneurs in Perfectirishgifts

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bevioletskies · 7 years

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what a wonderful world

characters: peter/gamora, guardians-centric

summary: the guardians’ last holiday season had been spent in jail on an alien planet (don’t ask), so peter’s determined to make their first real christmas on earth the best it can be. which, of course, means secret santa. and snowball fights. and baking cookies. and yeah, okay, maybe he’s getting a little ambitious.

word count: 25.4k

a/n: quick disclaimer - i had the plot outline of this fic done back in september and finished writing this in mid-november, so any resemblance to other people’s christmas fic, especially the 12 days of starmora, is purely coincidential. there are only so many holiday-related concepts haha

if you haven’t read the main fic, all you need to know is: the guardians attend a superhero school on earth, and therefore are approximately ten years younger than their movie counterparts. peter and gamora are in an established relationship after being in a fake one for a few months.

unlike the other one-shots, this is more a collection of vignettes than a linear story. everything is still in chronological order, but it’s implied that there’s a gap between each segment, and there’s no overarching plot other than, you know, christmas. happy holidays, everybody!

title comes from the song what a wonderful world by louis armstrong.

ao3 | tag | masterpost

“Oh, what a ni-i-ight,” Peter sang, hopping up onto the kitchen counter in the process. “Late December, back in '63…” A sudden slam on the table behind him caused him to nearly tumble right off the edge, his voice coming to an abrupt stop with a high-pitched squeal that he couldn’t say he was proud of. He turned slowly, wincing a little at the sound of his pant pocket studs dragging across the countertop.

“Peter, it’s too early for this nonsense,” Gamora said sternly. “I’d like at least another hour of sleep before we have to go check on the engine.”

“Dance with me, honey!” Beaming, he leaped back onto the floor and took her hands in his in one swoop, doing what she supposed was meant to be an intentionally awful impression of a jig, swinging her about the living room with reckless abandon. “But I was never gonna be the same, what a lady, what a night…”

“Did you drink an entire pot of coffee this morning? Or maybe some motor oil? What is happening? Even you aren’t usually this...hyper.” Gamora reluctantly allowed him to pull her closer, his hands coming to rest on the small of her back. She softened at the touch, knowing it was difficult to be mad at him when he was simply just eager to celebrate. “Peter…”

“Indulge me for like, one minute. Please.”

Oh, what a night...hypnotizing, mesmerizing me...she was everything I dreamed she'd be...sweet surrender, what a night…

“Fine, but we’re fixing that engine as soon as we’re done. I can’t imagine it didn’t ice over during last night’s snowfall,” she sighed as they slowed to a two-step, resting her head on his shoulders, standing slightly on her toes to reach. Her arms wound around his middle, clasping behind his back, inhaling the scent of the gingerbread cologne Mantis had gotten him as an early Christmas present. She usually wasn’t one for sweet scents, but secretly, she had gotten so comfortable nestled in Peter’s embrace that even the worst of perfumes couldn’t deter her for long.

Peter leaned down into her, nuzzling his face into her neck. “Of course, Gamora. Whatever you want.” He hummed quietly. “Love you.”

Her gaze flickered around the room briefly before landing back on the boy tucked against her. “I love you, too.”

Oh, what a night...why'd it take so long to see the light...seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right...what a lady, what a night…

Once the song was over, the two of them bundled up in their warmest winter coats and gingerly made their way off the Milano onto the loading bay, where they could get a proper look at the damage done during the night. It was mid-December, exams had finished, and most students had already left campus to go home for the holidays to be with their families. For the Guardians, “home” and “family” meant staying right here on this very ship. A ship that was currently dripping with wet, messy slush.

“Are you sure we don’t need Rocket?” Gamora asked. “He would be much better suited to this sort of thing.”

“You try draggin’ him out here in this weather,” Peter retorted. “If it was up to me, we’d all be hiding out in the dorms and leave the Milano alone for the next couple weeks, but he refuses to leave. Snow’s pretty heavy this year.”

“And once again, you and I are responsible for making food and supply runs,” she sighed, picking up a snow scraper and beginning to work on a large section of icy buildup over the engine’s hatch. “They complain about never getting to spend time with us, and yet they never come along when we actually go anywhere, arguably the best time to talk.”

“Well, we’ve got two full weeks ahead of us,” he said, flinging his arms out dramatically and nearly spraying her with snow in the process. “That's tons of time for just hanging out, even with our ship frozen over. At least it gives us an excuse to cancel all our jobs.”

Gamora’s gloved fingers slid over the hatch’s door handle, tightening their grip. She braced herself with one foot against the side of the ship and yanked - hard. The door opened with a violently high-pitched shriek, causing Peter to jump and clasp his hands over his ears. “And yet, we’re still working.”

“I think I’m deaf now,” Peter said dizzily, rubbing his palms over his temples. “You’ve deafened me.”

“This might be the worst way to spend our anniversary,” she continued, ignoring Peter’s antics as she began poking around inside with her wrench. “But at least I’m becoming more competent at this sort of thing, you know, working on the ship. At least, that’s what Rocket says, and the fact he even thought to say so tells me it’s actually true.”

“Hey, you remembered,” he grinned, moving forward to squeeze her hips affectionately. “I wasn’t gonna bring it up, but - ”

“ - but you thought I wouldn’t want to hear it,” she finished, turning to face him. “I know, I know. Peter, I promise I’m as invested in this relationship as you are. It’s just that I find anniversaries to be a superficial celebration of the passage of time, that’s all. I enjoy milestones, accomplishments, instead. They’re much more memorable than a singular date on the calendar to me. They mean more.”

“I get it. I totally get it. And you’ve always been a goal-setter.” He gently kissed her on the nose, sliding his arms around her once more. There was something immensely comforting about holding her close. “What’s been your favorite milestone so far?”

She chewed on her lip in consideration, thinking his question over, her hands coming to settle on his chest. “The first time we woke up together as a couple. You rolled right over, held me just like this, and said what I had been thinking - that it felt like we had already been together forever.”

“I was kinda worried that I made you uncomfortable as soon as I said it,” he admitted. “But you really know how to surprise me sometimes.”

“Believe me, I’ll let you know if I’m uncomfortable,” Gamora laughed. “I’m never one to shy away from speaking my mind.” She patted him on the backside very suddenly, causing Peter’s eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. “Come on, now. Let’s get to work. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can go back inside, have breakfast, and watch one of those Christmas movies you keep telling me about.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Peter said cheerfully, stepping back to let her begin.

Two hours later, Yondu stumbled out of his bedroom, yawning, blearily rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, only to let out a startled cry at the sight of the two bodies curled up on the couch together. “Aw, hell, it’s too early for this!”

“It’s 10 AM, Yondu, you missed breakfast,” Gamora said without looking away from the television screen. “And you’ll have to cancel your date tonight, everything’s frozen over. I wouldn’t go out in that weather if I were you.”

Peter lifted his head from Gamora’s lap. “You had a date?”

“Why you sound so surprised, boy?” Offended, Yondu flicked the toothpick he was chewing on in Peter’s direction before ambling into the kitchen, digging around the pantry for some bread. “Just some cute SHIELD agent, that’s all. No biggie.”

“Is everyone tryna find dates for the Christmas party or something? Even Mantis said she might give it a shot with that girl she likes,” Peter asked, confused.

“We can’t all be as lucky as you two,” Rocket drawled, emerging from his own room, Groot in tow on his shoulder as always. “Some of us don’t get to spend every damn day hanging out with our girlfriends.” He sneered the last word like it was something dirty.

It was Yondu’s turn to be surprised, the butter knife hovering halfway in the air. “You sayin’ you had a girlfriend before, rat?”

Rocket’s face suddenly shut down, the usual smirk fading away in favor of anger. “Shut up.”

“It was just a question,” Yondu said defensively, though he bowed his head in apology. Peter glanced up at Gamora, exchanging curious looks with her before settling back down against her thighs, her fingers moving to massage his scalp.

“Hey, uh, Rocket, Gamora and I already defrosted the engine and did a performance check, so you don’t have to worry about that today,” Peter called, watching cautiously as he crossed the room to pull down one of the main holo-screens.

“That’s good. Thanks, Quill,” Rocket said tersely, keeping his back to them as he began navigating through the ship’s interface.

“Do you have plans this weekend, Rocket?” Gamora asked tentatively, her fingers beginning to slow to a near stop.

“Yeah, uh. I was gonna hang out with Groot. Maybe go over that vocabulary book you guys bought him.” The tension in his shoulders eased up a little as Groot snuggled a little into his cheek in gratitude. “Probably do it alone.”

“Are you sure you don’t want help? I mean, now that Gamora and I can understand him too, it’ll be less work for you,” Peter suggested.

Rocket slammed a paw very suddenly against the holo-screen, aggressively closing all the menus he had pulled up. “Y’know what, I don’t think I wanna hang around in here if everyone’s gonna be all talky-talky, alright? I’m gonna go work upstairs instead. No one follow me, I ain’t in the mood.” Groot let out a small whine of protest as Rocket set him down on the coffee table before storming off up the ladder.

“I shouldn’t’ve asked,” Yondu sighed as he settled down at the table with his breakfast. “Rat’s been real tetchy lately. Y’think it’s just the weather? Or something school-related, maybe?”

“It’s Rocket,” Gamora shrugged as if was the only answer they needed. “He’s got a temper, and asking him about it will only make it worse. Just leave him be for now. He’ll come to us if it’s really important.”

“Peter?” A very nervous-looking Mantis appeared at the end of the corridor, twiddling her thumbs. “May we talk in private? Please?”

“Yeah, of course.” Peter stood almost instantly, concerned, squeezing Gamora’s shoulder before moving to join Mantis in her room. She hastily shut the door behind them, a wild, almost terrified look in her eyes. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I am so scared,” Mantis whispered, taking shaky steps forward into Peter’s chest. His arms went up around her shoulders, pulling her in tight. “I do not know what to do.”

“Don’t know what to do about what?”

“What do...what do you do when you have romantic feelings for two people at the same time?”

Oh. Out of all the worst-case scenarios that had been racing through his mind in the last thirty seconds, he hadn’t expected that. Peter’s heart broke a little for his sister at the very thought. In many ways, he had been lucky with his relationship with Gamora. He had never experienced truly deep, romantic feelings for anyone before her, and although it had taken them a while to get to where they were now, neither of them ever wavered, never found themselves even considering the possibility of liking someone else at the same time. He wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t make Mantis feel worse. “I don’t know, Mantis, I...I never had that happen before. But you can talk it through with me if that...if it helps?”

He gently led her over to the bed, where they sat side-by-side, their socked feet pulled up onto the mattress. She was curled into herself now, arms wrapped protectively around her legs, her chin resting on her knee, staring unblinkingly at the door opposite them. She had never looked so childlike before, so completely and utterly lost, at least, not since they had first found her on Ego. “I know what you have all been thinking. About who it is. And you were incorrect. At least, at first.”

“You mean…” Peter swallowed.

“Yes,” Mantis murmured. “And I am worried that the rest of you have put that thought into my head, instead of it forming on its own. Does that make any sense?”

“You’re worried we’ve pressured you into thinking you have feelings for her,” he said carefully. “Mantis, I’m so sorry. We shouldn’t have pushed you so hard to talk about all this. It’s your feelings, not ours.”

“It has been very difficult for me,” she admitted. “I am not very good at understanding myself sometimes. But I want to. I want to know who I am, outside of being someone else’s person. Ego’s assistant, your sister, a member of the Guardians...who am I, Peter? And what is it that I want? What am I meant for?”

“I think those are questions only you get to answer,” he replied, reaching to squeeze her hand. “But if you need help figuring that out, I’m here for you, okay? And maybe it’ll help if you try talking to Gamora, too. She’s gotten pretty good at helping me with my emotional crises,” he added with a chuckle. “Knowing yourself before you get involved with someone else is usually a good idea. She’ll probably tell you the same thing.”

“You think so?” Mantis sniffled a little, wiping at her watery eyes.

“Gamora’s been through hell and back, we all know it. And I don’t think she would’ve even considered dating me if she couldn’t feel good about herself. And, y’know, maybe that doesn’t apply to everyone, because hell, no one’s sure of themselves all of the time. But if you’re super stressed out about it, then maybe you should start there. You can do it, Mantis. I believe in you.” He wrapped her in a big hug, kissing the top of her head.

She curled into him, laughing softly. “You have become so good at this, Peter. Advice-giving, I mean.” He was pleased to hear her voice already coming back stronger, warmer, like it always did.

“Comes with the job, I guess,” Peter shrugged. “Leader, brother, boyfriend. All of the above.”

“I’m sure Gamora would agree with me that you are doing an excellent job at all three,” Mantis grinned in return.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Gamora was tapping her foot idly as she waited, though she was keeping a steady eye on Groot. “I am Groot,” he pouted, burying himself deeper into the couch cushions as if he were attempting to disappear entirely. She immediately wrapped a hand around his middle and dragged him back out, frowning at him.

“I told you, no opening presents until the day of,” she said sternly. “Some people haven’t even gotten their gifts yet. Peter, for example.”

“I heard my name, did ya miss me?” Peter strolled back in with a cheesy smile on his face, arms open wide. Gamora glanced up at him, unimpressed.

“You’ve been gone for all of ten minutes, Peter. The silence was welcome,” she snarked, though she moved to lay her head on his chest the instant he sat back down. His broad shoulders made for a surprisingly comfortable pillow. “Groot’s complaining about not getting to open presents yet, despite the fact we have almost none ready, and we haven’t even gotten the tree yet. You were the one who insisted on us fulfilling holiday traditions this year.”

“I’ve been busy. Finals were awful,” Peter said defensively, wrapping his arms around her. “We’ve got time, and besides, the weather’s awful. No one’s getting a tree today. We’ll be lucky if we can even leave the ship tomorrow.”

Sighing, Gamora pulled up the blanket around them, releasing Groot so he could run up Peter’s torso and settle in on his other shoulder. “I suppose it’s better than last Christmas. I still don’t know how you ended up landing in jail, and then when we went to bail you out, we somehow got arrested, too.”

“I think that duchess liked me a little too much,” he said lazily, letting his head fall against the armrest.

“She had the most irritating voice I’ve ever heard in my life, and that’s saying something.” Gamora began picking at a piece of invisible lint on Peter’s sweater, refusing to meet his gaze.

“Is that jealousy I detect in your voice?” he teased.

She rolled her eyes, poking him in the stomach with a sharp fingernail. “You have some odd fascination with the idea that I’d be jealous of anyone romantically attracted to you. Besides, I wasn’t attracted to you at the time, so that doesn’t even count.”

“I am Groot,” Groot countered, his eyes wide as he watched them converse. It seemed to be one of his favorite pastimes.

“Exactly, thank you, Groot,” Peter said triumphantly. “So you’re saying there was a time.”

“Well.” Gamora turned her head entirely so her face was practically buried in the back of the couch. “It’s hardly a secret that I was suspicious of your relationship with Cindy. But that’s only because you were my ‘boyfriend’ already, and I was concerned about how it was going to look to others if you were interested in another girl, and why are we still discussing this? We should be talking about you not going holiday shopping yet, even though you were the one practically begging us to do this Secret Satan - ”

Peter let out a choked laugh. “It’s...it’s Santa, honey. Satan’s a different...uh...person.”

She frowned, her irritation growing. “Does it matter?”

“Trust me, you don’t wanna get those two mixed up.” He lifted a hand to run his fingers through her hair affectionately, his thumbs running soothing circles over her temples. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. I just find it kinda cute whenever you get your references crossed. It gives me like, the weirdest visuals. Santa with a pitchfork and a tail - ” He cut himself off with a snort. She continued to look irked. “I’m not making fun of you, I promise. Please don’t murder me.”

“You’re lucky I like you.” She pinched him in retaliation. “Well, I already did my shopping with Mantis and Drax. Groot made Rocket and Yondu take him last week, which they claim is the reason they did rather subpar on their exams - as always, I’ve chosen not to listen to them - so that leaves you and - ”

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me.” Peter turned over, groaning into the cushions. “Please don’t tell me I’m going Christmas shopping with Nebula. I take back my request, murder me now.” ______

Quill.” A curt nod, refusal of eye contact, arms folded across her chest. Yes, that was Nebula, alright.

It wasn’t that Peter didn’t like Nebula - in fact, he liked her just fine, more than ever thought he would when they had first met on Knowhere while she was on a rampage, hunting Gamora down and nearly killing them all in the process - but it was rather the fact that, well, he was still kind of terrified of her. Just the tiniest bit. And who could blame him? She had a tendency to lurk in the background, no matter where they were or what they were doing. She somehow managed to fade into her surroundings, silently observing, whether during team meetings or dinner. And then, very suddenly, she would have a snarky quip or a violent outburst, the latter of which would cause Peter to have what felt like a mild heart attack.

However, Peter knew Nebula was of the utmost importance to Gamora. Despite constantly butting heads, he knew when it came down to it, the two sisters loved each other fiercely, though they would never outright admit it. He wanted to understand Nebula better, not just for Gamora’s sake, but for the sake of the entire team. He knew her general personality, her behaviors, her quirks, so to speak, but still knew so little of what she would be like as a teammate.

“This doesn’t have to be weird,” Peter told her as they got into the car (a cozy little hatchback, courtesy of Stark as always). “Why would it be weird? It’s just you...and me...hanging out together. Like we’ve...we’ve never done before.”

“Are you going to insist on talking the whole way?” Nebula buckled her seatbelt and promptly kicked her snow-covered boots up onto the dashboard, spraying little shards of ice everywhere, including the console, the emergency brake, and Peter’s arm.

“I could put the radio on instead,” he offered.

“Are you incapable of complete and total silence?” Nebula asked. “Or is it just that you like the sound of your own voice?”

“Right, I can already tell this is going to be a freaking joyride,” he muttered under his breath.

A couple hours of awkward silence later, the two of them arrived at the nearest mall, which, as predicted, was crowded with panicked shoppers, screaming children and babies, and salespeople who looked all of five seconds away from bursting into tears. Peter had to circle the parking lot at least three times before he managed to snatch up a spot furthest from the entrance, resulting in him slipping several times as they walked towards the doors. Nebula rolled her eyes at every last occurrence.

“Well, aren’t you the picture of grace,” she sighed when they finally reached the doors, yanking them open and practically stomping in. Peter could only watch in bewilderment as she began shaking more snow off her boots, not unlike a small dog. However, when she moved as if to make a run for it, he jumped forward to catch her wrist.

“Hey, hey, I promised Gamora we’d stick together, so you aren’t going anywhere without me,” he said firmly.

“And you do everything my sister tells you to do?” Nebula snorted.

“I do when she’s right, which is at least ninety-nine percent of the time,” he admitted. “Come on, let’s grab a store map and figure out where we’re going.”

There was a pause, though it wasn’t the kind of pause Nebula took when she was contemplating the various methods she had to kill a man, but an unreadable pause that made Peter shiver a little. Finally, she said, “Fine, but I want to go to the food court first.”

“Uh...not that I’m saying no, but why?”

“Iwanuhprezl.” She immediately turned on her heel away from him, though this time, she didn’t take another step.

“I...I didn’t catch that, what’d you say?”

“I want a pretzel,” Nebula mumbled. Peter blinked. Out of all the things he’d been expecting, this might’ve been at the very bottom of his nonexistent list. Still, he was pretty sure if he tried poking at what she’d just said, it would only result in broken fingers.

“I...okay, yeah, I could go for a pretzel,” he shrugged. They walked in silence towards the food court, Peter with his hands stuffed in his pockets, and Nebula’s stiffly at her side, her fingers tapping impatiently on the small pocket knife stashed on her belt (the only weapon Peter had allowed her to take). Then he brightened. “Hey, what kind of pretzel do you usually get? Savory? Sweet? Do you get dip? As a kid, I always wanted cinnamon sugar with caramel but my mom told me my teeth would literally rot of my head, but that didn’t scare me because I was like, ‘sweet, I wanna be a zombie!’ because apparently, the only word I heard was ‘rot’, and uh, you don’t care, so never mind.”

Silence. Then, “I want a cheese pretzel dog. I didn’t have breakfast.”

“Solid choice,” Peter nodded. “I can respect that.”

Fifteen minutes later, the two of them were sitting at one of the bar tables in the food court, devouring their respective pretzels. Peter was secretly pleased to see Nebula was eating at what he considered to be the ‘normal’ pace now. Even six months ago, she often ate like her food was going to get pulled out from under her any second, having become used to literally fighting for scraps. Like Gamora, he never wanted to see Nebula lose her confidence or her strength, but he was happy to see her becoming more relaxed in her own way, now that she was realizing she no longer had to fight to live.

“So I’m guessing you’re not gonna tell me who you got for Secret Santa,” he said. “Can I at least guess?”

“No.” She took a particularly vicious bite. Peter wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting.

“Well, it’s gotta be a better Christmas than last year, considering you spent two weeks stuck with Yondu while we were in jail,” he continued, undeterred, chuckling a little at the memory.

“I retreated to my dorm the moment it stopped snowing,” Nebula said, rolling her eyes. “You really think I was going to spend more time with that idiot than necessary?”

“Hey, that’s not fair. Give Yondu some credit, at least he’s trying to be your friend,” Peter protested. “Do you really hate him that much?”

“Why are you asking me so many questions?” she shot back, slamming her food down onto the table. It made an unpleasant squelching noise beneath her fingers in the process. “Did Gamora ask you to spy on me?”

“No!” he exclaimed. “She just wants me to look after you, but it’s not like she wants me to report back or anything. I just wanna get to know you better, that’s all. We never talk.”

“For a reason.” She stuffed the pretzel back in her mouth, chewing loudly. “Out of all the Terrans that I’ve met, I can’t believe it’s you that my sister has gone soft for.”

“Do you...do you think I’m bad for her?” Had he ever actually asked Nebula what he thought of his relationship with her sister? The idea had honestly never crossed his mind. It was silly in hindsight that he’d never considered it, since Gamora put more weight into Nebula’s opinions than she wanted to admit. Surely, she would have voiced her disapproval by now.

“Why does it matter what I think?”

“Because you’re the most important person in the whole damn world to Gamora, that’s why,” he said fiercely, leaning forward. “And if you think she deserves better, I wanna know why. I wanna know how I can do better.”

Nebula was first to break eye contact, instead electing to stare at her feet. “Fine. I’ll tell you what I think of you if you agree to never ask me again, and never tell Gamora we had this conversation.” He nodded eagerly in response. “You’re loud, obnoxious, overly dramatic, too energetic, and you never stop pestering all of us about being ‘family’.” Pausing, she lifted her head, narrowing her pitch-black eyes as if to examine him. “But...I suppose Gamora and I have never had someone so invested in our well-being in a very long time, or at least one who never expects anything in return. You make a decent leader when you actually try, though your speeches are horrendous. And I...trust you enough to eventually help us in our quest to kill Thanos, though I doubt you’ll survive the attempt.”

“Still thinking about that, huh?” he chuckled to himself, ignoring the passive-aggressive comments that were quintessential to really anything Nebula ever said. It seemed like eons ago since they first began seriously discussing going after Thanos, ending his terrifying reign once and for all, but he hadn’t made any moves in the last little while, giving the Guardians hope that they would have more time to prepare. Still, Peter knew Nebula was more anxious about it than anyone, even her sister. Her desperation for Thanos’s approval had been flipped on its side, now channeled into her hatred for what he had done to her and Gamora.

“You help her forget, even for just a little while, the unspeakable horrors we’ve been through, the horrid acts of pain and slaughter we’ve carried out in the name of a man who has done nothing but hurt us.” There was a twitch at the corner of her mouth that suggested she was attempting a proper smile. “You seem committed to making my sister believe in her self-worth, value her own happiness. So...I guess I can’t really fault you for that. Even if I don't care for either of those things myself.”

“I...wow.” Peter found himself struggling to choose his next words. For once, it wasn’t out of fear of what her reaction (or more accurately, her retaliation) would be, but of complete and utter shock. “Nebula, that’s...I don’t know what to say.”

“So you’re saying I’ve successfully shut you up? Good,” she smirked, though not out of malice. In a way, he felt as if they had reached an understanding of sorts, or at the very least, something of a truce. “Though like I said...if you tell Gamora any of what transpired just now, I will kill you.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” he laughed, bunching up his paper wrapper. “You ready to go?”

Shopping didn’t go quite as smoothly as Peter had anticipated, considering their conversation had ended on such a high note. Nebula was evasive when Peter tried to figure out where she wanted to go to get her Secret Santa gift, and the frequency of her eye-rolling increased tenfold once he requested they pick out more Christmas decorations for the ship.

“Don’t blame me, we were all too busy to go shopping during exams,” Peter said defensively. “Just help me pick out the damn Christmas lights. Should we get multi-colored? White? Red and green? These weird purple-y ones? I dunno what’s up with those.”

“Considering the ship is obnoxiously colorful, get white for general use and multicolor for the tree.” He stared at her in disbelief. She suddenly seemed to have realized she had put too much thought into her answer. “It’s obvious, you idiot.” That was more like it.

“Mistletoe’s unnecessary since no one’s kissing anyone but me and Gamora,” Peter said as they continued on. “Plus, she’d probably hate the idea of forced PDA.”

“She’s extraordinarily tactile when it comes to you, Quill, I wouldn’t worry about it.” Nebula’s ability to tap her foot impatiently as fast as she was going was starting to give Peter a headache.

“Wasn’t aware I asked for the peanut gallery,” he snarked in return. The confused expression he got in return was worth it.

When they went into the toy store to look for presents for Groot - he was beginning to develop a sizeable collection of plushies as large as he was - Peter found himself swarmed by children who recognized him, asking him to sign bits of paper or their Star-Lord dolls. Beaming, he complied instantly, trying his best to reach everyone in the crowd of approximately thirty people.

“What do you do at that big superhero school of yours?” one brave little one asked him, her eyes so huge that it reminded him of Mantis.

“Well, we just finished exams,” Peter said. At the kids’ disappointed faces, he hastily added, “But we had to fight this woman who came from Asgard last month - y’know, that place where Thor is from? - and it turns out she was the goddess of death!”

“Ooh,” said about seven different tiny voices in near-perfect synchronicity.

“How did ya beat her?” one skeptical boy asked.

“There was this other woman who came to help defeat the goddess of death - her name is Valkyrie, you might’ve seen her on the news. Super cool, white marks on her face, big blue cape? And she got lots of the other girls on campus to help her with all of their weapons, and powers, and skills, to send the goddess of death back to where she came from,” Peter explained. “Oh, Nebula for example. She was one of them.” He gestured towards her.

“Are you a hero too, miss?” One of the littlest girls took a step closer towards Nebula. She looked no older than four. Peter shot her a pleading look over the girl’s head. He knew by now that Gamora had grown comfortable with dealing with admiring children, while Nebula still snarled at Groot when she was feeling particularly tempestuous.

“It varies from day to day,” she drawled, folding her arms across her chest. That seemed to satisfy the girl well enough, as she stepped back to join the rest of the crowd once more.

“Tell us more about the Val’krie!” one girl begged.

Peter chuckled. “Sure. Well, I haven’t really hung out with her or anything, but she’s friends with my girlfriend, Gamora - you guys know who she is, right? - and oh, man, watching them train together is super awesome…”

“How could you possibly stand being around those little creatures?” Nebula shuddered. It had been fifteen minutes since they had left the toy store, now armed with bags of free merchandise, courtesy of the manager. “Unpredictable, noisy, obnoxious, asking too many questions...you know what? Never mind. You must be entirely at kin.”

“Har-har,” Peter said sarcastically. “Kids are great when they're not tryna cause trouble. They’re just curious, that's all. You were never like that?”

“You’re asking me to remember a period of my life that has been long removed from memory,” she said darkly. Whether she had simply chosen to forget it, or Thanos had actually physically done something to her memory, Peter wasn’t sure, and he didn’t think it would be right to ask. “Are you telling me Gamora still has memories of childhood?”

“She never talked about it much. She says she remembers bits and pieces about her parents, but she sometimes forgets them entirely,” Peter admitted. “Is it like that for you?”

“As always, you ask too many questions,” Nebula sighed, though she didn’t continue on with another threat. Peter considered that to be a sign of progress. “Oh, there’s that store with too many shirts and toys.”

“Yeah, Hot Topic. Maybe I’ll buy something for Gamora, she loves getting her gloves there,” he replied, grinning easily.

They returned to the school campus a mere hour before dinnertime, loaded with a surprising amount of shopping bags. Nebula was in unusually good spirits after they had come across a stall selling toy weapons. She had insisted upon buying one for both Gamora and Rocket, wanting to plant them among their existing inventory and see how long it would take for them to notice. Peter was just surprised she even understood the concept of a prank in the first place.

“You’re not terrible, Quill,” Nebula said as they pulled up to the entrance gates. “Though I’m definitely not a fan.”

“Fair enough,” Peter replied as he passed their ID cards to the security guard. “You aren’t my favorite either. But we’re cool now, right? Like, less death threats and stuff?”

She side-eyed him before snorting, shaking her head. “Sure, Quill. ‘Less death threats and stuff’. But only because I don’t want to put up with Gamora’s incessant whining if I were to harm a single hair on your head.”

Upon boarding the ship, they were immediately greeted by Gamora, who was sitting by the entrance, twisting the multitude of silver rings that adorned her fingers rather anxiously. “No injuries, I see,” she said dryly as she moved to help them with their bags.

“We’re practically best friends now,” Peter said cheerfully as he began unloading his haul onto the coffee table. “Sorry, Gamora, you’ve been demoted.”

“I’ll get over it,” she shrugged, turning towards her sister. “Nebula?”

“He’s not a total loser,” Nebula replied, unceremoniously dropping all of her bags onto the floor. There was a crunching noise that made both Peter and Gamora wince. “I suppose you could have picked a worse Terran to fall in love with.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say about Peter,” Gamora said, smirking as she stepped closer to him, patting him placatingly on the arm. “Don’t you agree?”

“Sure,” Peter said, catching Nebula’s wary gaze. She was practically pleading him to stay silent. “I don’t really pay attention when she’s talking, to be super honest with you.”

Rolling her eyes, Gamora swatted him with a dish towel before pulling him over to the kitchen so they could set the dining table together. Nebula flopped onto the couch, kicking her feet up onto the armrest, smiling a little to herself. Yes, she supposed her sister could have done a lot worse in choosing a companion. But he turned out to be a half-decent leader after all. Friendship, however? That was still an entirely different story. Nebula didn’t want friends, never wanted friends, but...in a strange way, maybe he had become one without her realizing it. Dammit. ______

“Gamora? Are you busy at the moment?” Gamora startled a little from where she was curled up on the couch, looking up from her book. Drax was looming over her, and if she were anyone else, she might have been a little wary about his otherwise serious expression, but if anything, she was just a little annoyed.

“Do you need something?” she asked with a raised brow, sliding her thumb across the page to hold it in place.

“Quill requested that Mantis and I make cookies for the team, but seeing as Mantis has fallen ill…” He trailed off uncertainly.

“You want me to be her substitute.” Gamora nodded in understanding, closing her book and getting to her feet. “Sure, why not?”

Drax gave her a grateful smile before they walked into the kitchen. They worked in silence for a few minutes, gathering up utensils and ingredients in accordance with the recipe Peter had provided them. Unlike the way Drax and Mantis cooked, using Terran recipes they had found in books or online, Peter’s recipe was written down by hand on a notecard. Gamora remembered when he had told her about the way his mother had indexed and revised her recipes, a habit he had since picked up himself. She smiled fondly at the messy scribbles on the card, the way Peter had written “approximately” at least half a dozen times in various spots, unsure of whether he had remembered it exactly right.

“How have you been, Gamora?”

She turned away from the stick of butter she was slicing up to look over her shoulder at Drax. “Fine, I suppose. My exams went well, I did all of my shopping, got all of the team paperwork completed for the year, and - ”

He chuckled, though not unkindly. “I meant your general well-being, not your to-do list. You are usually quite stressed this time of year.”

“Well, I'll tell you a secret, Drax,” Gamora hummed, turning back to the task at hand. “I’m always stressed.” He let out a jovial laugh, a full-bellied chuckle that betrayed his otherwise imposing presence. He passed her the mixing bowl so she could add the butter. “I have relaxed a fair bit since this time last year, though. Probably because of my increasing closeness to the rest of you.”

“It is a delight to see,” Drax nodded. “Your happiness is integral to all of us, Gamora. It would be a shame if you were worn out.” He moved back to the other side of the kitchen to begin working on the dry ingredients. “Quill told me you’re starting your fight classes next month. Are you not concerned about your impending workload?”

“I can handle it.” She smiled a little to herself as she began stirring. “Besides, it’s not like I’m alone in all this. Peter shares my Guardian work, and Nebula and I have an equal hand in fight training. As I’ve said, if there’s anything I’ve learned these past couple of years, being with this team, it’s that we should let other people be part of our lives. There’s value in teamwork.”

“I imagine with the difficult life you led beforehand, it must be a relief to be here.” Drax pulled up a stool and sat down, facing her. It was a little comical, considering the stool was built for an average-sized person while he dwarfed it by a long shot, but he looked quite pensive otherwise.

Drax was certainly a curious one to Gamora, perhaps the sole person of the group that she empathized with the most, and yet understood the least. His single-minded determination to kill her when they had first met told her he was a brute and a bully, someone who couldn’t see the forest for the trees. He spoke with a diverse vocabulary, yet understood little of the semantics of language and socialization, perhaps even less than she and Nebula. Later, she came to understand it was the nature of his people, and she felt shameful to have judged him at all. Now, she had a better sense of his true self - kind, loving, fiercely loyal and protective of those he cared about, and she was glad to be considered one of his loved ones.

She was also grateful that he had never described to her, in detail, the deaths of his family. He had told her the general gist of what had happened, but a part of her always wondered if he still somewhat resented her for it, despite her having no hand in the actual crime.

“Do you still think of her?” Gamora asked quietly.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well…” She hesitated before settling down on a stool herself, opposite him. “A little while ago, Rocket seemed to imply he used to have someone - a significant other, that is. And he said that some people couldn’t be as lucky as Peter and I. It got me thinking, if our relationship made you uncomfortable, or made you feel sad…”

“I do think of Hovat.” Drax folded his hands neatly in his lap. “Perhaps not as often as you might imagine, but every now and then, I have a quiet moment to myself, and I think fondly of her. I think of how we met, the time we spent together. How, had I not invited her over to my family’s home that night, she would not have been killed alongside them. We did not live together yet, but it felt inevitable that we would someday. Now…” He trailed off.

“I wish it could’ve been different for you. You’ll get your vengeance someday, I promise.”

He shook his head, smiling weakly. “No, Gamora. I have no need for revenge any longer. Besides, I believe you and Nebula deserve the chance to kill Thanos just as much as I do, if not much more. Despite having heard very little stories and seen no physical scars, I can only imagine that the pain he inflicted upon both of you is worth his death many times over.”

“We’ll get that bastard someday.” They both turned to see Peter standing in the doorway, wearing a ratty old band T-shirt, yawning and scratching at his belly. “You guys baking in here? Smells good.”

“As per your request,” Drax said, getting to his feet. “Another Terran tradition of yours, yes?”

“Usually, yeah.” Peter kissed Gamora chastely on the forehead before moving to grab the water pitcher from the fridge. “Better tradition than telling your kids about the night you made them.”

“You have such odd hang-ups about intimacy, Quill,” Drax chuckled, shaking his head in amusement.

“Uh, would you like it if I told you, in detail, about every single time Gamora and I have sex?” Peter brandished the jug at Drax and ended up splashing water on himself instead.

“I know I wouldn’t,” Gamora said loudly, prodding him in the gut with her foot. “Don’t encourage him, Peter. Next thing you know, he’ll request to be present.” Peter shuddered at the very thought, shuffling several feet away from Drax in response.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Peter said hastily, grabbing the cough syrup from the coffee table. “Just dropping by to get some stuff for Mantis.” He gave them an awkward wave before slowly backing away down the corridor. Gamora couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his antics.

“Such a strange one, that Quill,” Drax commented once Peter was out of sight. “But I must admit, he has become more and more valuable these days. I could not imagine the team without him.”

“His effort is quite admirable,” Gamora replied with a gentle smile. They began pulling out the old, rusted cookie sheets, scooping up the dough and divvying out what they hoped to be evenly-sized dough balls. “It’s what all of us should be trying to do, don’t you agree? To be better versions of ourselves?”

“A good way of thinking about it,” Drax nodded. “You have always been the wisest of us all, Gamora. It is one of the many things I admire about you. Though honestly, it was also what made me curious about what you saw in Quill, romantically. His intelligence and maturity seemed lacking in comparison to yours. But I see now that you two hold the utmost respect for each other, understanding and devotion. I liken it to my relationship with Hovat.”

“I can tell by the way you talk about her that she meant everything to you.” Gamora leaned back onto the counter, watching Drax contemplatively as he slid the cookie sheets into the oven, wincing a little at the screeching noise it made. “Do you think you’ll ever seek another romantic relationship again?”

“Part of me worries it will be seen as disrespectful to what I had with Hovat,” Drax said, straightening back up. He looked anguished at the very thought of upsetting her. “In my culture, we believe that the spirit lives on. And perhaps her spirit will curse me for wanting to be with another.” He smiled in remembrance. “But she was not a vengeful person, my Hovat. I believe she would want me to be happy. However, I have yet to meet a person who I wish to share my affections with. Like with Hovat, I think I will see them and just…know. Which is why I choose not to go on those dating websites or ‘apps’ that Quill has told me about.”

“Smart move,” Gamora said dryly. “Well, there’s no rush. You have time.”

“Yes, I do.” Drax grinned a little wider, serene. “There are still many things I hope to do someday. I have already been in love once. I still love her, of course. But falling in love again, it simply isn’t a priority compared to what else life has to offer me. Taking on Thanos at last, for example. Not out of vengeance, but a desire to, well, guard the galaxy. Prevent others from suffering the same fate as my family, as yours. An honorable lifetime endeavor, I would say.”

“And a hefty title and reputation to hold, at that,” Gamora added, holding up her glass of water. Drax let out a merry laugh and clinked his cup against hers, drinking deeply as if it were the finest of wines. ______

Mantis emerged from her bedroom, practically dragging her feet, inhaling loudly. She winced a little at the whistling noise her nose made as she did. She was almost over her flu – she had never fallen ill via Terran sickness before, and it was decidedly unpleasant compared to some alien ailments she had experienced while living with Ego.

She stumbled her way up the ladder to the cockpit, curious about the echoing sound of clanking and clattering. She expected to see Peter there, digging around for some lost trinket or gadget as he often did, blaming his misplaced items on the others as always. To her surprise, she found Rocket instead, who was frantically emptying out a large, worn-out cardboard box, muttering to himself under his breath like a crazed person.

“Rocket? Is everything okay?”

“Quill ain’t here, bug-girl,” Rocket snapped without looking up. “So you can piss off.”

“Do not talk to me like that,” Mantis frowned, getting closer so she could kneel beside him. She was hardly ever deterred by Rocket’s behavior at this point, having gotten too used to his mood swings. “Maybe I can help.”

“Do you know how any of this stuff works?” Rocket gestured at the pile of what looked to be circuit boards and data chips, some of which looked incredibly broken and brittle. “If you don’t, I can repeat what I said earlier.”

“I only want to help,” Mantis repeated. “Tell me what you are looking for and let me try and find it.”

Sighing, Rocket threw down the flash drive he was holding and slumped back onto his hind legs. There was a sense of defeat in him that Mantis rarely ever detected, a resignation in his eyes so unusual it disturbed her. Of all the Guardians, she avoided Rocket the most, only ever interfering with his emotions if another was at risk. Otherwise, she knew he was secretly afraid of her, of what she could do. It still hurt her feelings a little bit, him thinking she would ever manipulate or betray his trust like that, but she understood where he was coming from. Sometimes, she was a bit scared of what she was capable of, too.

“My display’s been all outta whack lately,” he said, picking up the wrist computer he often toted around. “Something inside must’ve literally cracked. But I can’t find a match for the broken piece.” He turned it over to show her the open hatch, where she did indeed see a section with a corner broken off, the minuscule lights stuttering and flashing as if in warning.

“That seems to be quite old,” she said thoughtfully, carefully taking it from him. “Have you considered building a new one? You must be quite the expert in doing so.”

“No!” Rocket exclaimed, yanking it back. “I have to…I have to fix this one. I have to.”

“Okay. Okay.” Mantis held up her hands defensively. “Okay, then let us look. Are there more boxes of these things anywhere else? Have you asked Peter, maybe? This ship has many nooks and crannies we have never been to.”

“I already asked, and this is all we got, so.” Once again, the tightness in his shoulders melted away as he leaned against the box in hopelessness, the tips of his ears drooping. “Oh, this ain’t happening. I’m not gonna be able to do this.” The wrist computer let off an alarming series of sparks as if to agree with him.

“I’m sorry, Rocket.” She worried at her bottom lip, unsure of what to do. She wasn’t sure why this was so important to him, especially right at this very second, but she was determined to stop him from giving up. At least one thing was for certain – she needed to calm him down, not with her powers, but with her words. “Should I go get Peter? He would be more knowledgeable about what to do – ”

“No, no, we ain’t telling Quill about this.” He yanked the device off his arm and threw it so hard that the glass display cracked on impact. “Shit.”

Rocket made no move to pick it up, staring at it with wide eyes, frozen. Mantis crawled forwards to grab it and bring it back, turning it over gently in her hands. “It’s okay. It is only a small crack. The glass will be easy to replace.”

Suddenly snapping out of it, Rocket glared at her like she had been the one to throw it in the first place. “You really don’t get it, do you?” he snarled. “What, you not tryna read my mind or whatever the hell it is you do – ”

“And I have said many times before, I read emotions, not minds,” she said patiently, settling in across from him. “So if you are frustrated because I do not understand you, then make me understand.”

“No.” He shook his head almost violently. “No, no one knows, ‘cept Groot. And I aim to keep it that way.”

“I find another perspective is always helpful,” she offered. When he remained silent, eyes narrowed as if he were contemplating whether to snap the antennae off her forehead, she simply smiled in return. “When I was living on Ego’s planet, all I ever knew, for the longest time, was him. I knew what he thought of the world, what he wanted from the world. And I went along with him because I thought he was clever, I thought he was kind. But that was because I did not know what other beings were like. Then, his children began to appear to us. Children of many different races and backgrounds. Some I knew for weeks. Some for just a few hours, before they would disappoint him. And then they would be gone, just like that. Still, I began to empathize more with the children than with him. I saw different ideas of what it meant to be united, to be a collective group of people, instead of Ego’s idea of The Expansion. To live in harmony. But I did not believe that I would ever be able to leave Ego behind, as I was too used to being with him. I was becoming too reliant. It was not until you all arrived that I began to understand my true purpose. What I was meant to be doing, how I could help.”

Rocket broke eye contact first, casting his gaze down on the floor, arms still folded defensively across his chest. “Yeah, yeah, another perspective. You should really be in charge of that motivational speech crap that Quill’s a big fan of, y’know? At least you don’t ramble on about some TV show no one’s ever seen.” She fixed him with another patient smile before he exhaled slowly, relenting. “You really wanna know?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I do.”

Another long, shaky exhale. “This…this thing. It didn’t belong to me originally. It belonged to 89P14. Her name was Lylla.” He sniffled so quietly Mantis almost thought she’d imagined it, if not for the wetness on his nose. “We were both…monsters. Created in a lab. Except she wasn’t a monster at all. She was…sweet. Optimistic. Upbeat. A real good soul, y’know? Never gave up hope on thinkin’ we’d be able to escape the lab one day. We lived in cages right next to each other. And when we weren’t being experimented on, we talked. We could talk for hours. And the stupid thing is, it’s not like we had tons to talk about. Neither of us knew any sorta life outside of those cages. But we liked to imagine the kind of adventures we’d get to go on once we got out. It distracted us from the pain we were in.”

“What happened?” Mantis prompted, though she had a sinking feeling she knew what was coming next.

“What else? We got brave…and stupid. Or in Lylla’s case, hopeful. She always had so much hope.” He chuckled weakly. “We tried to escape. Devised a whole plan. It was s’posed to be airtight. But I guess one of the others must’ve heard us, wanted to get us in trouble so we’d get put through the ringer and they’d be left alone. The thing is, the assholes working in the labs, they can’t survive the outside air on Halfworld, so Lylla and I punctured all of their bio-suits ahead of time. But they didn’t know that, so they chased me and her all up and down the complex, aiming to stun, not kill. We were too valuable for that. But then we got to the final gate that would lead to our freedom, and it was stuck. Some stupid freakin’ fingerprint-protected thing, y’know? And Lylla, she was the only one who knew tech better than I did, so she insisted I run ahead and she’d get it open. Like a dumbass, I did what she told me to. I always did. So the gates open, I’m runnin’, and I turn around and she’s just standing there. All the scientists, they start panicking ‘cause the air’s comin’ in. So they just snatch her up and run back for cover. Gate closes. And that’s the last I ever saw of her.”

“Rocket…” Mantis’s eyes watered. She wanted to reach over and comfort him somehow, but the last time she had tried to pet him, it hadn’t gone so smoothly. Her fingers trembled with desperation. “I don’t know what to say. I am so sorry.”

“Par for the course, right?” He tilted his head upwards, staring off into nothing, his dark eyes glossy with tears. “When those assholes were workin’ on me, I was always in pain. Still am sometimes. But never...never here.” He weakly tapped his own chest with a shaking claw. “Not until that day.”

“Tell me.” Rocket turned to look at her in confusion. “Tell me if it ever gets so bad that it physically hurts. My powers are only a temporary solution, but at least it will provide you some relief. It will not make you forget her, or what she meant to you. I promise. Do not hesitate to ask me, Rocket.”

“You gotta let me have some of my pride left intact,” he chuckled half-heartedly. “And it’s stupid – this whole d’ast thing is stupid – but even though it’s just a dumb Terran holiday, Quill going on and on about how this time of year is for family and loved ones just reminds me even more that she’s gone.”

“I know we are no substitute for how you felt about her, but do not ever doubt that we care about you,” Mantis said, smiling warmly. “And…maybe this is a stupid question, but how do you know that Lylla actually died in the lab that day?”

“What…what do ya mean?” There was an almost startling spark of wistfulness in Rocket’s eyes. Mantis found herself worrying that she was already getting his hopes too high.

“Well…say that the contaminated air from the outside got into the lab. All the scientists die. Lylla and the others survive,” she said slowly.

“No, that’s…that’s impossible. They would’ve come outta the lab, I would’ve seen ‘em.”

“Maybe. Or maybe the scientists died a slow death, and the others had to wait. Or maybe they spent some time gathering supplies from the lab, or seeking vengeance upon the people and the place that destroyed them.” Mantis shrugged. “I am just saying, there are many possible outcomes here.”

“So you’re saying…if I had just waited…just a little bit longer…I might’ve seen her again?” His ears drooped once more, shaking his head slowly. “I was just so caught up in the idea of her death that I just ran off when I could've waited.”

“It is only one scenario, Rocket. Do not beat yourself up for what you did or what you could have done,” Mantis said reassuringly. “I am just saying…have some faith. And that includes having faith in this computer of yours. Surely we must be able to find a replacement. If not on this ship, then elsewhere. You do not have to tell the others your reasons in detail. Just tell Peter that it is important to you, and I’m sure he will help.”

“…I could return to Halfworld.” He turned the wrist computer over and over again, as if it possessed some magic qualities that would tell him what to do next. “They’d probably have the parts I need.”

“There you go,” Mantis beamed. “All hope is not lost. It might be too cold to take the Milano out at the moment, but when it gets warmer again, we can go to Halfworld and help in your search.”

“Y’know what? You ain’t so bad, bug-girl,” Rocket said. He reached over to place a paw on her forearm, usually the kind of move that she had to make to placate him. “Maybe it’s all that holiday spirit voodoo crap that Quill’s been talking about, but I’m feelin’ generous, so. Thanks. For…this.”

“I am your friend, whether you admit it or not,” she teased. “I am just glad I can be here for you. I always feel so much anger…resentment…from you. Sometimes even more so than Nebula. I much prefer it when you are happy.”

He grinned toothily, baring his fangs in a way that made Mantis involuntarily flinch a little. “So do I, kid. So do I.” ______

“Well, it’s about d’ast time,” Rocket said triumphantly, watching as Drax hefted the tree a little higher on his shoulder, strolling up the loading ramp of the Milano as if it weighed no more than his backpack. “I was startin’ to think Quill was playing a joke on us, tellin’ us that humies put presents around a tree in their living room. Thought you were tryna mess with Groot or something.”

“I’m not that big of a dick, thank you very much,” Peter grumbled. He was walking closely behind Drax, holding the accompanying stand and tree skirt. “Honey, you got the decorations?”

“I can already tell you went overboard,” Gamora retorted with a resigned sigh as she emerged from the storage closet. She was carrying a large cardboard box that was bursting at the seams, weighed down with Christmas lights, ornaments, and the like, all things Peter had been slowly accumulating over the last month in anticipation of finally celebrating the holiday season on Earth. “I gave you a budget for a reason, Peter.”

“Trust me, you won’t regret it once you see it in action!" He and Drax began setting the tree down in the corner of their already-cramped living area, carefully adjusting the skirt and fanning it outwards to make it look somewhat presentable. The others watched, somewhat unimpressed.

“It’s going to shed everywhere,” Mantis said uncertainly. “Is this really what Terrans do, Peter?”

“You guys won’t doubt me once we get these going,” Peter replied, walking over to Gamora and patting the top of the decoration box. “Come on, everyone jump in!”

“I hope you do not mean literally,” Drax said, apprehensively eyeing the size of the box. The look in his eyes told the others he was mentally calculating how many of them could fit inside.

“I never do, dude. I never do.”

They worked in hesitant silence for the first couple of minutes, an admittedly welcome sound considering the usual chaotic atmosphere of the ship. Nebula was the only one not participating, electing to instead sprawl across the armchair, watching as the others strung up lights, hung up ornaments, and wound some tinsel around the tree. Groot was standing on the very tip of Yondu’s fin in order to place the glittering star on top.

“What are these for?” Mantis asked, pulling out yet another plastic package from the box, the very last of the decorations. Each bag contained oval chalkboard ornaments with a small hole puncture, strung with peppermint-striped ribbon.

“We can personalize those,” Peter suggested. “I was thinking we could write our names, or maybe Christmas-y sayings, or stuff that we loved about this year. There’s fifty of ‘em in there.”

They all shot him dubious looks, unsure of whether they even had enough ideas to fill all fifty chalkboard ornaments. Peter faltered a little at the sight of everyone’s expressions, wondering if once again, he had overdone it in his enthusiasm. But then Gamora stepped forwards first, opening up the plastic package with her teeth and taking out a stack for herself, along with an accompanying piece of white chalk. She settled down on the floor next to Nebula’s feet, bringing her knees up close to her chest, and began carefully sketching out her name in neat script.

Yondu laughed very suddenly, startling Groot, who was still perched on his head. “Oh, hell, why not?” He proceeded to do the same as Gamora, grabbing extra for Groot before setting him back down on the coffee table.

Gradually, the others began queuing up for materials, Peter being the last one, an internal sense of relief settling into his bones. He sat next to Gamora, trying to ignore the sway of Nebula’s feet next to his head (he was pretty sure she was doing it on purpose). “Thanks, Gamora,” he said softly.

“I’ve got your back,” she smiled in return. “Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do.” He nudged her shoulder with his playfully, laughing quietly. “What did you love about this year, Peter?”

“Classes were more interesting,” he began slowly, tilting his head in deep thought. His fingers began drumming out a beat on his knees. Gamora was surprised to find she could identify the song quite easily, though considering how much time she spent in his company nowadays, maybe it wasn’t so surprising after all. “I really liked learning, actually. I don’t usually like school, but this place is pretty awesome. Oh, and we had way more successful missions, since we actually know what we’re doing.”

“Other than the one where we were stranded on an abandoned planet and thought everyone else was dead,” she added, waving her chalk at him. “I can’t say that was entirely pleasant.”

“Figured that went without saying,” he chuckled. “I feel like I also made more friends this year, since there were so many new students that joined up. And I’m definitely closer to all the Guardians than before, which is always a bonus. I think even Nebula’s beginning to like me.” The swift, but gentle kick to the back of his head told him otherwise. “Ow, okay, I take it back. But it feels like a real family now. Kicking included.”

“Strangest one I’ve ever seen, but I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Gamora confessed. She began sketching out a tiny version of her sword on her ornament, her tongue slightly poking out in concentration, eyebrows knitted together. His heart melted a little at the sight.

“And of course, you.” Peter slung an arm over her shoulders, turning to kiss her forehead. “Don’t think I need to tell you how you’re kind of one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. I wouldn’t be nearly as happy or successful as a leader if you weren’t right here by my side.”

“We started off in a rough place back then, but I have no regrets about the outcome.” She slid her socked foot neatly between his, tapping him with her toes. “Being co-leaders, best friends, romantic partners…I honestly thought it would be too much. That it would mean we had too many responsibilities to each other, too much emotional investment, too much to ask of each other, but…I think we’ve found even footing. Both a separation and a merging of our roles, so to speak.”

“How romantic of you,” he teased. “You sound like we’re going into business together.”

She prodded him in the cheek with her chalk in retaliation, leaving a white streak in his stubble that was rather comical-looking. “Do you want me to gush over your virtues, Quill?” He shivered a little at the use of his last name – she never called him that anymore despite originally using it exclusively, and he had to admit, it sort of did something for him. “Lavish you with affection, boost your ego?”

“It’s all I ever ask for,” he said sarcastically, wiping at his face.

“You know how much I care about you, Peter.” She softened, her dark eyes warm with affection. “Please don’t make me say it when everyone else is in the room.” She was beginning to grow flushed with every word she spoke.

He dipped his head to bury his face into her jawline, pleased when she began to laugh at the sensation, her fingers digging into his side. “I can’t believe you’re embarrassed at how much you love me,” he sing-songed triumphantly. “Aw, Gamora. I love you too.”

“Have I mentioned you two are insufferable?” They both looked up to see Nebula leaning over them. Now she was the one brandishing chalk in their faces. They had to duck in order to avoid getting the spray of chalk dust in their eyes.

“This would only be the thousandth time,” Gamora retorted. She pulled Peter a little closer into the crook of her neck out of petulance. “If you don’t like it, sit somewhere else.”

“I was here first!” Nebula exclaimed incredulously. Peter couldn’t help but notice a childlike squeak on the last word, but decided against saying anything. He wasn’t looking to be blinded via chalk dust, not today.

“She has a point,” he shrugged. “There’s more room on the couch. Let’s cuddle obnoxiously until Yondu makes gagging noises. Again.”

“You know I will,” Yondu called from the kitchen, where he was leaning against the counter island. “You’re lucky I like you both, or I woulda skipped out on this nonsense a long time ago!”

“I am not embarrassed,” Gamora mumbled as she dragged him over to the couch. ______

Yondu wasn’t being facetious when he said he liked Peter and Gamora, that he thought they were a good match. He knew the others had had their doubts back in the days of trying to set them up, but he never wavered, not when it came to Peter’s love life. After all, he’d grown up alongside him, watched him blossom from a scrappy little kid to a (relatively) responsible young man. Gamora made Peter incredibly happy, had become his other half in many ways so quickly, that Yondu was honestly surprised anyone ever questioned the legitimacy or compatibility of their relationship.

That being said, he wasn’t a fan of constantly seeing their...intimacy.

And okay, he was lucky enough to have never caught them in the act before. He had accidentally witnessed plenty on the Eclector when Peter was a bit of a flirt, enough times that Yondu was a little too familiar with what he looked like, sans clothes. But in a way, it was almost worse seeing them cuddle.

“Not again,” Yondu groaned as he turned around from his spot by the fridge. “Were you even here five seconds ago, girl?”

On the battlefield, Gamora was fierce, relentless, unwavering. She stared down death as if it were just another face in the crowd. Seeing her wearing an oversized Christmas sweater (likely one of Peter’s), tucked into his side in the armchair despite it only having room for one, with a book in hand, kind of challenged that image for Yondu.

“Grow up, Yondu,” she retorted without looking up. “You would think you’d all be used to this by now, but you still insist on acting like a child whenever Peter and I are remotely close to each other.”

“I am Groot?”

“I didn’t mean that as an insult to children, Groot, I apologize.” Gamora leaned over to pet Groot in consolation, where he was stood on the coffee table, pouting.

“You’d think for a guy who schemed about getting us together, he’d be a little happier about it,” Peter smirked, giving Gamora a particularly sloppy kiss on the cheek. She wrinkled her nose and swatted at him, wiping away the saliva he’d left on her face.

“I am happy for ya,” Yondu insisted. “I just thought you’d be the more private type, G’mora.”

“I choose to no longer fear intimacy,” she said patiently, setting her book on the armrest. “I feel most comfortable with myself around all of you, so I make the effort to be more affectionate when it’s just us, especially since Peter is a very tactile person. It’s not like I’m constantly hanging off of him in public. And it’s not my problem that you also happen to be here.” Peter snickered into her shoulder.

“Ri-i-ight,” Yondu drawled. “Sure, that’s what it is. Well, I gotta go make my call to Kraglin, make sure he’s doin’ okay. Anyone wanna join me?”

Groot perked right up, waving his arms in the air enthusiastically. “I am Groot!” he chirruped.

“Sure, twig, I’m sure Krag’ll be happy to hear from ya.” Yondu scooped him up and set him on his shoulder. Groot hummed happily in response, his little fingers holding steadfast to Yondu’s ear. “I’ll leave you two alone like you want. Don’t go defiling the furniture, now.”

“How do ya know we haven’t already?” Peter called after Yondu’s retreating back.

Yondu didn’t give him the satisfaction of any sort of visceral reaction. After all, he could hear a grunt that told him Gamora had elbowed Peter in the gut for his insinuation. Instead, he turned to Groot and said, “You’ve got some weird parents, twig.” Groot shrugged nonchalantly in response.

They spent a few minutes in comfortable silence as Yondu attempted to get everything set up. Coordinating calls with Kraglin was always a bit of a nightmare, what with him being hundreds of thousands of clicks away at any given time, but it was worth it. Yondu missed Kraglin fiercely, secretly wished he would come join the school alongside him, be on a team together again. But Kraglin didn’t like school, had never been good at it, and his talents clearly lay elsewhere – captaining the Eclector. And Yondu didn’t trust anyone else to do the job (especially that stupid what’s-his-face).

Groot was enjoying himself in the meantime, bouncing up and down on Rocket’s chair, squealing and whooping with delight. Yondu’s eyes darted over to him every minute or so to make sure he wasn’t entertaining himself with the buttons on the console instead. “Be careful, kid, or you’re gonna send us flyin’.”

“I am Groot,” he retorted, insulted.

“I’m just sayin’, that’s all,” Yondu replied, holding up his hands defensively. “Alrighty, we’re in, I think. Krag? You there, boy?”

“H – zzt – ah – zzt – yeah – zzt – yeah, I’m here.” The speakers in the cockpit of the Milano screeched to life rather unpleasantly. “Howzit goin’, cap?”

“I keep tellin’ you to stop callin’ me that,” Yondu said, brightening. “You’re the captain now, Krag. Don’t forget it.”

“How could I? Everyone’s always hollerin’ at me about somethin’,” Kraglin grumbled. “It’s hell, Yondu.”

“Welcome to life, boy,” Yondu snorted. “And watch your language, I got twig here with me.”

Kraglin’s voice immediately softened. “Oh, hey, Groot. How’s it goin’, bud?”

“I am Groot,” Groot nodded, clutching onto the edges of the holo-screen as if it would improve his chances of being understood. “I am Groot…I am Groot…I am Groot? I am Groot.”

“Uhh.” Kraglin paused. “What’d he say?”

“You think I know?” Yondu snapped. “I still don’t quite understand him yet. Getting there.”

“But you said Pete and Gamora, they can talk to ‘im now, right? Maybe you just gotta hang out with the kid more."

“How can I? He’s the most popular Guardian, no matter how much Quill pretends it’s him. Always being passed around from person to person, everyone wantin’ a piece of him. Must be exhausting.” Groot let out a whine of protest, reaching to pat Yondu on the face affectionately. Even Yondu could help but feel a little warmer at the sight of his large, dark eyes. It was hard not to.

“An’ how’s everyone else doing? All the, uh, holiday stuff Pete’s got going on?”

“Think the stress has finally passed,” Yondu commented thoughtfully, patting Groot on the back. “We got a Christmas tree inside the ship, ‘cause that’s apparently a thing Terrans do. We got presents, lots o’ sugar and sweets. Think we’ve finally settled with everything Quill insists we need.”

“You sure? He’s always been more of a last-minute kinda guy,” Kraglin chuckled. There was a soft thump that told Yondu he’d just leaned back in his chair, probably propped his boots up on the display like he always did.

“Gotta say, Quill’s been more responsible lately,” Yondu admitted. “Guess he’s learnin’ that being captain don’t mean he can just boss everyone around. But y’know, it’s weird having him tell me what to do.”

“You sayin’ you wanna come back to the Ravagers and take over for me?” Kragin joked, though something in his voice also seemed to imply that he might have been somewhat serious. It was hard to tell with the poor reception.

“Hell, maybe I can retire young. Return to the Eclector and do jack shi – um.” He eyed Groot guiltily, though the little one didn’t even seem to notice, scratching at a particularly itchy spot on his belly. “Nah, I’m okay where I am. This Guardians business, getting my criminal records wiped clean? Fresh start don’t sound like too bad an idea to me.”

“Already done with your thievin’ days, huh? Don’t let the other boys hear ya.”

“They might just kick my a – behind – if they did,” Yondu laughed. “Well, Quill’s looking out for all of us, but someone’s gotta look out for him. I know I ain’t his best friend anymore, but I still know him best.”

“Aw, come on, Yondu, you really gonna think like that?” Kraglin protested. “We ain’t kids no more. You can have more than one best friend. Me? I got two best friends. You and Pete.”

Yondu turned away from the screen for a moment so he could inhale sharply without the microphone picking it up, a lump in his throat beginning to form. These weekly talks with Kraglin were a relatively new thing, something they'd picked up ever since Kraglin first accepted the job as the new Ravager captain. It had started with Kraglin calling the Milano during his first week, desperate for advice on how to deal with the rowdy crowd he’d been left to handle. It had quickly turned into long chats about almost nothing at all, and it made Yondu feel both light on his feet and oddly morose at the same time.

Sure, life on Earth was pretty cushy compared to the life-or-death situations he’d run into as one of the youngest Ravager captains in the history of the galaxy, but there was something really captivating, exhilarating, even, about the simple days of do-or-die. He missed the days of when he, Peter, and Kraglin were growing up together on the Eclector under Stakar’s watchful eye. Peter constantly getting into trouble trying to explore the private areas of the ship, Kraglin trying his best to pretend he wasn’t terrified at the prospect of being caught, while Yondu was probably the one to perpetrate the act of poking around in the first place. Even the mundane things, like doing chores or eating breakfast together, were things he wouldn’t quite be able to do ever again.

“Cap? You there? You gone all silent.”

“I said not to call me that anymore,” Yondu said hoarsely. Groot was snuggling into his shoulder in an attempt to reassure him. “Krag?”

“Yeah?”

“You, uh...you really sure you don’t wanna join me here on Terra? It’s got decent food and mighty fine women,” he suggested slowly.

“You know me, Yondu, I don’t got the brains for school,” Kraglin replied. Yondu could almost picture the self-deprecating smile.

“You’re smart, boy, don’t say that,” Yondu protested. “Hell, I thought the same of Quill, look at ‘im now. He’s been getting pretty decent grades, making good choices. That could be you, too.”

“I ‘ppreciate it, Yondu, but I’m good where I am.”

“I guess I, uh...I just miss you, is all. Haven’t seen your ugly mug in a while.” Yondu coughed awkwardly. “Say something, Krag, don’t make this weirder than it hasta be.”

“I miss you too.” He sounded choked up. Groot patted the console like he was trying to reach through to physically comfort Kraglin. They had only met a handful of times, but Kraglin was just as fond of Groot as pretty much everyone else was. “Hey, maybe I’ll convince the guys to drop ‘round Terra sometime and come see ya. Give us a tour of the planet or somethin’.”

“It’s a damn big planet, boy, won’t be easy.” Yondu tried picturing the Ravagers roaming the streets of New York City. Somehow, he couldn’t see that ending well, though the idea of them wandering through Times Square wearing “I Heart NY” ballcaps and chowing down on hot dogs made him laugh.

“We got time.”

“Right.” Yondu sniffled again. “I don’t know if it’s all of Quill’s yammerin’ on about being sentimental this time o’ year, but I’d like to move on past this sappy crap. Did ya finally evict that idiot? What’s-his-face?”

“Oh, Taserface,” Kraglin snickered. “Yeah. Threw a huge fit, but I got everyone on my side. There was this moment where he was tryna explain his name to us, said it was metaphorical…” ______

“Do we hafta go to this shindig?” Rocket complained. “I got a new gun I wanna work on.”

“You always have a new gun you wanna work on,” Gamora snorted as she strolled out of Peter’s bedroom, barefoot, holding a pair of heeled steel-toe boots in one hand and her utility bel in the other. She was wearing a silky black jumpsuit that Mantis had insisted she wear for the occasion, and was now struggling on where to stash her weapons. “Never thought you’d be hesitant about attending a social function that involves alcohol.”

“It ain’t even gonna be that busy,” Rocket replied. “Most everyone’s gone home ‘til school starts again.”

“How ‘bout this?” Peter emerged from his room as well, looking somewhat uncomfortable in a too-tight dress shirt (though Gamora wasn’t complaining) and oxfords that pinched his toes. “We go for an hour, we mingle, dance a little bit, and then come back and go do whatever we want.”

“If we do not go at all, Janet will be quite upset,” Mantis added.

“I would prefer not to face her wrath, so I’m inclined to agree with Quill,” Drax nodded.

“Fine, but if it ain’t open bar, you’re paying for all my drinks,” Rocket said, jabbing a claw in Peter’s general direction. He shrugged in defeat before turning towards Gamora.

“Do I look okay?” he asked as the others began dispersing to grab their coats. “This is definitely too tight. But I don’t have anything else for some reason.” She smiled teasingly, stepping closer to rest her hands on his shoulders.

“Doesn’t make for a bad view,” she drawled. “And I think I’ll just take the one blade tonight.” She held up the multi-tool he’d gifted her for their fake one-month anniversary, twirling it deftly between her long fingers. “I’m not expecting anything dangerous to happen, after all. I suppose the most exciting thing that could possibly happen is if you get drunk and puke on someone’s feet. Again.”

“I’m not planning on drinking tonight, actually,” Peter said as they both sat on the couch, pulling their shoes on. “I was hoping to hang out with you after we get back. Y’know, if you want.”

“Oh?” Gamora eyed him suspiciously. “What did you have in mind?”

“A movie?” he suggested. “If it’s just you and me, maybe A Christmas Story, but if Groot wants in, definitely A Charlie Brown Christmas. He’d love it.”

“Why don’t we have Groot join us then? It’s been a while,” she said. Then she leaned in, whispering, “We can always kick him out of our bed later.”

“Our bed, huh? I like where your mind’s at,” he grinned as they got to their feet. “Everyone ready?”

The Christmas Eve party was being held in the Avengers Dorm common area, hosted by the effervescent Janet van Dyne as always. It was a reasonably large room that had been cleared of most of its furniture in favor of a DJ booth (with Vision at the helm) and a buffet table with drinks and snacks. There was, of course, an incredibly tall Christmas tree set up next to the fireplace, glittering with red and gold decorations, garland and string lights dangling from every wall and ceiling beam, and of course, mistletoe in every doorway, making every student a little twitchy.

I don’t want a lot for Christmas…there is just one thing I need…

“Of course this is the song playing right now,” Peter chuckled as they entered the room, shaking his head. “I think this just plays on loop in Janet’s head all December.”

As if she’d heard him, Janet popped up seemingly out of nowhere, decked out in a poofy red-and-green dress, complete with Santa hat and, for some reason, a red feather boa. She was nothing if not over-the-top festive. “Hey!” she squealed. “Guardians, I’m so glad you came! It wouldn’t be a party without you.”

“Yes, where’s the alcohol? I’d like to forget that I was ever here,” Nebula interjected impatiently. Gamora pinched her in retaliation.

“I’ve got Steve on alcohol bodyguard duty,” Janet replied, gesturing towards the kitchenette. Captain America was indeed standing in front of the comically small fridge, arms folded sternly as if he were protecting some sacred item of worship (though on a college campus, free alcohol was probably the next best thing). “We’ve got a lot of younglings this year, can’t take our chances. That includes you, Groot!” Groot hopped from Rocket’s shoulder to Janet’s outstretched hands, letting out a happy squeal at the sight of his friend. “I’m trying to get pictures of everybody by the tree – for next year’s yearbook, you know? – and I’m also hoping for some shots under the mistletoe. Peter, Gamora, if you would be so kind – ”

“Janet,” Gamora groaned. “You already have a good dozen photos of us, is another really necessary?”

“Another one’s not gonna kill us,” Peter whispered softly in her ear. “Remember, the real number one rule of this school – don’t piss off Janet.”

“Fine, but you better get me a spare key to the gym before school starts, I’m increasing my training time now that I’m also teaching,” Gamora said to Janet, twisting her mouth in displeasure.

“You got it!” Janet said cheerfully, tugging her by the arm towards the closest tuft of mistletoe, and subsequently dragging Peter along with them.

The rest of the Guardians exchanged dubious looks before shrugging and dispersing. With her sister gone, Nebula stalked over to the fridge, giving Cap her best stink eye. “Move.”

“You could ask nicely,” Steve suggested. “And pullin’ out a knife won’t work on me. Been there, dealt with that.”

“Listen, you star-spangled di – ”

“Nebula!” She jumped at the sound of her own name, whipping around to see Mantis standing behind her. “All you have to do is say ‘please’. You always complicate things for yourself.” Mantis stepped a little closer, smiling warmly at Steve. “Drax and Rocket have requested I get a couple beers for them, if you would please.”

“Sure.” He handed them off to her, giving Nebula a pointed look as he did so. For all his clean-cut looks, he certainly was braver than the majority of the campus population. Most people tried their best to avoid any sort of eye contact. “Nebula?”

Nebula glared at him. “I’ll have a beer as well. Please.” Mantis nodded her approval, smiling encouragingly as he passed her another cold can. “Well, this has been pointless.” With that, she turned around and stomped off as angrily as she had arrived. Steve, who had seen just about everything, only raised an eyebrow in response.

“She is a work-in-progress,” Mantis whispered conspiratorially. “Pay no mind.”

He simply chuckled in return. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. But keep up the good work, Mantis. She’ll come around someday.” As if she’d overheard, there was a loud commotion not too far away. Their heads turned to find Nebula glaring at Daisy Johnson, who was shaking quite literally. “Um, maybe you should intervene before Quake causes a, well…quake.”

Before Mantis could move, however, Gamora peeled herself away from Peter, having also overheard Nebula’s snarls. “Well, that can’t be good,” she muttered to him before practically sprinting across the room. “Hey, Nebula! Nebula!”

“What?” she snapped, rounding on her sister instantly. Daisy took the opportunity to slink off, eyeing her surroundings carefully as she ducked back into the crowd. “What do you want?”

Gamora blanched a little. “You were fine before we left, did something happen?”

“Do I really need a reason to be angry?” Nebula cracked open her beer can and took a generous gulp. It vaguely reminded Gamora of when Valkyrie was in a bad mood. Or a good mood, really.

“Yes, actually. Because you can’t just go around acting like you don’t care when clearly, something is wrong,” Gamora hissed. “You can’t fool me, Neb, and you can’t avoid me either. So you might as well confess.”

“I have nothing to confess, Gamora. You’re starting to inherit Quill’s ability to invent drama when there is none.” Another sip.

It was interrupted by Gamora promptly grabbing her by the arm and yanking her into a secluded corner, shooing away the couple that had been making out there previously. They looked ready to argue until they realized who they were confronted with, and quickly ran off without a sound. “I’m not inventing drama, I’m reading the signs. You need to stop acting like I’m the enemy, because I’m not.” She paused, thinking back on the period of their lives in which they had been nothing but enemies to each other. She shuddered at the idea of it ever happening again. “Not anymore. I’m on your side, Nebula, I always am. So if something’s bothering you, just come out and say it.”

Nebula folded her arms across her chest, sloshing her beer around a little as she did, letting out a long exhale of utter defeat. “What is it with everyone wanting to discuss my feelings lately? Does it matter?”

“Yes, because what you want and feels matters to me, and it should matter to you as well,” Gamora said pleadingly, clasping her hands over Nebula’s tightly folded ones. “Are you not tired of being mad all the time? Or wishing that the things that happened never did? I have…cried, some nights, thinking about what we’ve gone through, but I don’t want to anymore. I’m tired of being tired. And I want to be at peace with myself, with what I’ve done. It’s the only way I can carry on with my life. And I want that for you, too.”

Nebula sighed again, though she gave her the tiniest of smirks. “Relax, sister. My feelings don’t run that deep. At least, not this time around. I just…I find it interesting. How similar you and I are. But this school values you so much more than it does me. Our classmates are all convinced of your greatness as a warrior and as a friend, yet refuse to make eye contact with me when I walk by. Like there’s some great allure to your existence, while I repel people.”

“You have to admit, Nebula, you aren’t the friendliest of people,” Gamora said, relaxing. Maybe she was finally going to get somewhere with her. “And I don’t blame you. We have every right to be wary of who and what to trust. But we’ve been here long enough – maybe it’s time to decide who you think is worth your attention.”

“The only person whose opinion I value is…well.” Nebula awkwardly waved a hand in Gamora’s general direction, causing her eyes to widen in surprise. Even the implied admittance was something that truly seemed like a holiday miracle. “I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. Terrans don’t seem all that inclined to understanding the nuance of our personal histories. There are probably some who still fear us.”

“And we should pay no matter to them,” Gamora said, reaching to grab Nebula’s free hand and squeezing tightly. “Come on, let’s go socialize for just a moment. Standing around in the corner like this won’t bode well for our reputations. Maybe you can talk to Valkyrie? If there’s one thing she likes talking about incessantly, it’s a good fight. I bet you'd like to hear about her time on Sakaar.”

And just like that, the designated hour flew by without notice, at least, until Peter approached the group of women he knew to never cross unless he wanted to die an early death (among them being Valkyrie, Elektra, Carol, and of course, Janet), gently tapping Gamora on the shoulder. “Hey, you ready to go?”

“I certainly am,” Nebula said, her voice as droll and monotonous as ever, though it lacked the usual hostility that came with it. Peter swore he could also see the beginnings of a genuine smile. Either that, or she was more inebriated than she’d like to admit.

“Wait!” Janet exclaimed. “One moment, before you leave.” Gamora and Nebula exchanged dubious looks before the other girl returned, hefting quite the number of boxes that dwarfed her relatively small frame. “If you don’t want me to buy you presents next year I’ll totally respect that, but since it’s your first winter holiday on Earth, I just had to get you all a little something.”

“Uh. Little?” Peter held out his arms so Janet could unload them, his knees buckling slightly under the sheer weight of the packages. He could never understand how such a tiny girl could be so strong, with or without her Pym particles. “Thanks, Janet, this is really awesome of you,” he said, breath coming in short. He was certainly going to have a backache by the time they returned to the ship. With a patented eye roll, Gamora grabbed a few off the top of the pile and strolled off towards the exit. “Thanks, Gamora!” he called after her retreating back. Nebula merely snorted and disappeared to go find the others.

“Happy Christmas Eve, Peter,” Janet said cheerfully. “I hope you and the Guardians had a good time tonight. Between you and me, even Nebula seems to be in the holiday spirit.”

“It’s weird, right?” Peter chuckled. “But hey, I ain’t complaining. Nothing’s better than a happy team, especially when said team members could totally decapitate me or something, I mean, you should see their weapon cache, it’s crazy – ”

“I’ll see you around, Star-Lord,” Janet laughed, interrupting him mid-ramble to pat him on the shoulder and vanish into the crowd.

Once the Guardians had returned to the Milano and went their separate ways, Peter and Gamora curled up in Peter’s bunk, Groot sprawled out across Peter’s belly, as A Charlie Brown Christmas played from the projector on his holo-tab. “So I’ve been told Nebula’s doing better with people. Marginally.”

“We had a discussion of sorts,” Gamora said with a shrug. “But then again, we seem to be having said discussion every day. If anything, she’s probably giving in just so I stop bothering her about it. It’s progress, I suppose.”

“As long as you never give up on her,” he said, rubbing her shoulders reassuringly. “But I know you won’t. You always get the job done no matter what. She’ll come around eventually.”

She smiled up at him. “I’m always astounded by the amount of faith you have in me,” she murmured softly. “I don’t think I could trust myself that much.”

“I wish you would. And you’ve never given me reason to think otherwise.” He leaned downwards to kiss her briefly. Groot let out a tiny cooing noise at the sight from his vantage point against Peter’s chest. “But also, I’ll be the first to admit I’m totally biased.”

“As long as it’s not blind faith, I’ll gladly accept it.” She grinned before settling back down against his side, turning back towards the screen. “So why was it called Peanuts, exactly?” ______

“PETER! IT IS SNOWING AGAIN! YOU SHOULD COME SEE!”

Groaning, Peter slowly lifted his head up from the pillow, blinking blearily into the darkness of his room. “Whattimeisit?”

“Early.” Gamora’s face was still half-smushed into the other pillow, her hair splayed out across the sheets and tickling his nose. Hell, if she was still sleeping, then it was most definitely too early. They often joked that her morning alarm was an attempt to beat the sunrise. “Want me to take care of it?”

“Well, it is Christmas.” He smiled sleepily at her.

Sighing, Gamora rolled over to face the general direction of the bedroom door and hollered, “GO BACK TO BED, MANTIS! IT’S TOO EARLY FOR THIS!” She turned back to snuggle into Peter’s side, draping an arm across his front. “Done.”

“GAMORA, WHAT YOU YELLIN’ FOR?”

“YEAH, WE’RE TRYNA SLEEP HERE!”

“I DO NOT APPRECIATE BEING UP THIS EARLY WHEN WE HAVE NO CLASSES OR MISSIONS TO ATTEND TO - ”

“Shit.” Peter let out a delirious laugh into the pillow as he pulled her closer. “We’re never getting back to sleep at this point.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gamora mumbled, drifting off once again.

Eventually, at a more acceptable time of morning (when it could correctly be referred to as morning, and not, as Yondu so delicately put it, “the ass-crack of dawn”), the two of them made their way into the common area, pleased to be greeted with the welcome smell of fried eggs and fresh coffee, handled by Drax and Mantis respectively. Yondu was sprawled across the entire length of the couch, twirling his arrow between his fingers, while Nebula was sitting on the floor with her back against the side of the armchair, staring off into nothing. Rocket and Groot were at the dining table, looking over the schematics of the gun Rocket had been working on last night.

“Morning,” Mantis chirped happily as if she hadn’t interrupted everyone’s sleep not four hours ago. “Coffee? Eggs? Bacon? Hashbrowns?”

“The correct answer is ‘all of the above’,” Peter replied, grabbing a plate. “Also, seriously, what was up with you this morning?”

“Sorry,” Mantis said sheepishly as she began carefully pouring out two steaming mugs of coffee. “It just looked so pretty with the sunrise coming in, I thought we might want to do those activities you spoke of before. Snow angels and snowmen, correct?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sipped contemplatively after passing Gamora her cup. “All the snow we've been getting has been nothin' but hard ice. Maybe with today’s fresh snow, it’d finally be soft enough for us to do that stuff.” He turned to address the rest of the room. “Hey, guys, how do you feel about delaying opening our presents a little longer and heading outside instead?”

“Wasn’t looking to freeze my butt off,” Yondu said, frowning. “What you on about, Quill?”

“Well, you guys know that I wanted to go all out on Christmas traditions this year,” Peter said thoughtfully. “So maybe after breakfast, we could go play in the snow. Might be our only chance before it freezes over.”

“I am Groot?”

“Yes, and then presents, I promise,” Peter nodded, settling down at the dining table with his food. “Aw, Rocket, you’re really working on a holiday?”

“Holidays don’t mean squat to me,” Rocket shrugged. “I like workin’ on this stuff, you know that. Besides, once all this snow goes away and we can finally go on jobs and make money again, the baddies won’t know what hit ‘em. Here, take a look.”

“Save it for tomorrow, Rocket, and have some breakfast.” Gamora set a full plate down in front of Rocket with a little more vigor than necessary. “We’ll look at it, I promise. But let’s just take the day for us. We all deserve it.”

“Since when’re you the biggest cheerleader of ‘em all? You hate having no plans,” Rocket said, eyeing her suspiciously, though he did accept the fork she gave him, digging into his food happily, letting out a noise of satisfaction as he did. Drax was surprisingly adept at cooking Terran cuisine, while Peter had only just recently learned how to stop burning his grilled cheese sandwiches.

“Ever since Quill infected her.” Nebula slinked over to the kitchen, smirking. Mantis’s eyes widened a little, her cheeks burning, before she wordlessly handed her a plate. “Still, I suppose it could be worse. This campus is crawling with narcissistic optimists, so Quill is relatively mild in comparison.”

“I’ll take it,” Peter said through a mouthful of hashbrowns.

“Excuse me for wanting to believe in something for once,” Gamora said dryly. “The idea of going out in the snow sounds enjoyable enough. I thought you’d be happy I’m not insisting on doing drills or fight training today.”

“Oh, trust me, I ain’t complaining, just curious,” Rocket said, grinning at her so genuinely that she was taken aback. She finally sat down as well, on Peter’s right, smiling fondly when he reached under the table to squeeze her leg in greeting. Rocket’s face twisted once more in response. “Aw, come on, can’t you go five seconds without playing footsie?”

“I’m just saying hi,” Peter protested.

“Yeah, sure, then ‘hi’ turns into kissin’, and nobody wants to see that,” he grumbled, stabbing at his eggs. Mantis’s eyebrows shot up in concern, her antennae attuned to the downturn in everyone's mood. She smoothly slid into the seat next to Rocket, giving him a warning glance.

“Peter, Rocket and I were having a chat last night after we came back, about some of the devices he has been working on?” she said as casually as she could, hoping he couldn’t hear the nervous thump of her heartbeat as she began to lie through her teeth. “He said some of the parts he needs are likely on Halfworld. Perhaps we should prioritize a supply run once the snow has melted.”

“You sure you wanna go back to Halfworld, dude? Didn’t sound so fun when you described it to us,” Peter said curiously.

“Yeah, man, it’s no big deal. I just need a crap ton of things that I’m almost a hundred percent sure are on Halfworld. It’ll be like, three days max.” Rocket shot Mantis a grateful look when Peter turned back to his food.

“Then sure, I’ll add it to the itinerary. But hey, no more shop talk, okay? Like Gamora said, the day’s for us and nothin’ else.”

“You got it, Quill,” Yondu called from the couch. He was attempting to eat lying down, the plate balanced delicately on his stomach. “That’s practically my life’s motto.”

After breakfast was over, the Guardians bundled up as best they could, including Groot, who had received a custom-made coat and wool hat from Janet about a month ago, making him somewhat resemble a jumbo-sized marshmallow. They carefully made their way off the ship, wincing a little at the amount of snow that had already settled over the Milano and was sure to freeze over later. Still, they soldiered on down the loading bay and out onto the open field nearby, the satisfying crunch of their boots filling up the silence of the relatively empty campus.

Giddy, Mantis immediately began twirling about, sticking out her tongue to catch the flakes as they fell. Peter jogged over to join her, grabbing her hands and spinning her around in an improvised swing dance. “It’s so pretty,” Mantis giggled as they came to a stop. “I did not know it could be so soft!”

“All the snow we’ve been getting so far has been pretty unforgiving until now.” Peter bent to begin clearing out a small area for them to work in. “So, let’s do it, guys! Snowmen! Er, snowpeople. And snow raccoons. And…snow…trees.”

“And how do we make these ‘snowpeople’ you speak of?” Drax asked.

“You just use the snow, dude! You can make it as fancy as you want, or you can just roll up a bunch of huge snowballs, stack ‘em, add a couple sticks for arms, and call it a day,” Peter shrugged. “Watch.”

The others stepped back as Peter rolled out an enormously dense ball of snow, humming along with the music quietly streaming out of his headphones. He pushed it perfectly into place over the area he had cleared and proceeded to stack two more on top. Peter sang under his breath as he used a small branch to carve out the details, starting with the seams of his favorite jacket and pair of jeans. Already, its resemblance was obvious, even without a face.

“Interesting,” Gamora commented, cocking her head sideways to better observe Peter’s handiwork. “Alright, I’m in. Guardians?”

“Sure, as long as Quill shares his music. All the crunchin’ noises the snow's making is gonna give me a headache,” Rocket complained.

“Gladly,” Peter grinned, setting the Walkman down on the nearby bench and cranking up the volume.

Imagine me and you, I do...I think about you day and night, it's only right….to think about the girl you love and hold her tight...so happy together…

For the next hour, the Guardians proceeded to make snowpeople of their own, occasionally running off in search of things like pebbles and branches to complete their work. Even Groot got in on the action, setting up a tiny snow-Groot of his own next to Rocket’s creation, which ended up being the same height as him. “I am Groot?” he asked Rocket.

“No, no, don’t grow out your fingers and break ‘em off for arms, that’s a terrible idea," Rocket scolded. “Just grab some twigs from that tree over there like the rest of us."

If I should call you up, invest a dime...and you say you belong to me and ease my mind...imagine how the world could be, so very fine...so happy together…

“Mantis, you seem to have quite the artistic touch,” Drax said, not even bothering to hide his surprise as he observed Mantis carving out a near-perfect recreation of her own facial features. “It looks almost exactly like you.”

“Disgusting?” she teased, flicking some snow in his direction. Drax frowned, scooping up a little bit of snow himself and flinging it at her in return. Squealing, Mantis ducked behind her snowperson before pelting another snowball back. “Drax!”

Before the others could blink, Mantis and Drax had suddenly found themselves in an all-out snowball fight, sprinting around the snowpeople and nearly tripping over themselves in an attempt to run and scoop up snow from beneath their feet at the same time. Rocket immediately ducked to grab Groot before he could get trampled on, while Nebula rolled her eyes and continued on with perfecting the frown on her snowperson’s face with pebbles. She was never going to admit how long she had spent searching for the best ones.

“Wait, guys - ” Peter proceeded to join in, laughing wildly as Mantis tackled him to the ground a mere thirty seconds later. “G’mora - Yondu - Rocket - guys, join us - ”

“Ple-e-e-ease,” Mantis begged, getting up off of Peter and tugging on Gamora’s sleeve. Sighing, Gamora gave in, scooping up a snowball of her own and smushing it right onto Peter’s face. “Yay!”

“Mercy, mercy,” Peter spluttered through a faceful of ice. He could already feel his eyelashes freezing over. “Can we partner up instead of having a free-for-all so we don’t end up killing each other? Gamora, you wanna be on my team?”

“Always,” Gamora smirked, holding out a hand so she could hoist Peter to his feet. With that, everyone proceeded to break off into pairs - Drax and Mantis, Yondu and Nebula, who somehow agreed to work together by process of elimination, and even Groot got in on the fun once Rocket told him he was in charge of making snowballs (“And nothin’ else, I don’t need you getting hit in the face today!”).

Peter and Gamora took off first, ducking behind a particularly large oak tree, while the others spread out across the field. “So, what’s our plan of attack?” Peter said breathlessly, peering out from around its stump. Nebula was currently hanging off of Drax’s back, her arms wrapped around his neck as Drax spun around in an attempt to shake her off like a dog, while Yondu was pelting him repeatedly in the chest. Groot was running for cover behind his little snow-Groot.

“Depends on whether we want to ambush everyone at once, or pick them off team by team,” Gamora replied, beginning to vigorously pack a stack of snowballs. “I’m faster, but you have better aim.”

“If we take ‘em out one-by-one, that’ll give the others time to find our hiding spot. You throw, I’ll make,” Peter decided, grinning stupidly. He had never felt like such a little kid all over again until now, overeager and easily excitable. Being surrounded by the people he loved most in the galaxy only made it more exhilarating.

He quickly began scooping and shaping, while Gamora watched the chaos developing further out on in the open, seemingly unaware that she and Peter had disappeared. There was something comforting, almost, watching the Guardians attack each other with harmless snowballs instead of cutting each other with words, something they did far too often. She was guilty of it herself, verbally picking and scratching at everyone else’s problems and insecurities as a way to ensure their compliance (or occasionally, silence). But now, all she saw was her friends whooping and laughing enthusiastically as snow and ice flew about everywhere. Even Nebula seemed to be enjoying herself, though she wasn’t quite as vocal as the others, smirking as she rained absolute hell on Rocket, who didn’t seem to mind for once, returning fire with a giant grin on his face.

“Ready,” Peter said triumphantly, presenting her with what had to be at least fifty little spheres of neatly packed ice. Gamora folded herself into sniper’s position, lying on her belly while propped up on her elbows. She eyed the others speculatively, before picking up the first snowball and flinging it with all her might.

“Ow!” Drax roared, whipping about, trying to figure out who had just hit him square in the eye. He had no time to go looking, however, as the next snowball had landed in his mouth. Yondu barely had five seconds to burst into laughter before three snowballs landed neatly on his fin, causing him to yelp like a small child in surprise.

Within thirty seconds, Gamora managed to obliterate the others, now all collapsed on the ground in a panting heap. Even Groot looked tired, and he hadn’t even been involved in the fight. Smirking, Gamora turned back over to lean onto the tree trunk to look at a slack-jawed Peter. “How did I do?”

“Freaking amazing, that’s how,” Peter said, crawling towards her and wrapping his arms tight around her midsection. “We make an awesome team, don’t we?”

“Always,” Gamora repeated, allowing him to pull her back down into the snow as he kissed her enthusiastically, yelping a little when the sides of their faces ended up hitting the snow. Peter’s already-rosy cheeks were getting increasingly pink, the tip of his nose reddening as well. Gamora began rubbing his face with her gloved hands to warm him up, chuckling softly as he began nuzzling into her neck like a cat. “You’re such a child, Peter Quill. But I can’t say I mind all that much.”

“Because you love me,” he sing-songed, tilting his head up to meet her eyes. They were glittering with pure, unadulterated joy.

“Somehow, yes, you ridiculous child.” She leaned in, kissing him again. “Are you done demanding that I vocalize my affection now, or do you need more praise before I get to properly warm you up?” In lieu of a response, Peter pulled her in even closer, deepening the kiss.

I can't see me lovin' nobody but you...for all my life…when you're with me, baby the skies'll be blue...for all my life…

“Aw, gross. Shoulda known it was you that got us all,” Yondu chortled. Reluctantly, Peter and Gamora turned to look up at their friends who had surrounded them in a circle, slightly disgruntled, flushed, and covered in slush, but mostly glowing with happiness. “Well, if we can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

“What’s that s’posed to - ah!” Peter yelped as the others proceeded to throw themselves down on top of him and Gamora, resulting in Nebula’s sharp elbow in his gut and Drax’s knee landing on his crotch. Groot let out a happy cheer as he nested himself in Gamora’s scarf, cooing happily, while Mantis was sprawled out at the top of the pile, her giggling becoming increasingly delirious. “Dra-a-ax, you’re heavy as hell.”

“Mantis suggested group hugs would contribute to team morale. Do not single me out for my enormous muscle mass. I will not be shamed for my body, which is in impeccable condition,” Drax frowned.

“I just like hugs,” Mantis hummed happily, kicking her feet in the air.

“I am Groot,” Groot agreed.

“Fine, but we’re only staying here for two minutes, or else we’re going to freeze up and die. Then we’ll all be snowpeople,” Gamora said sternly, though she softened a little when Peter moved to kiss her again. His lips were ice cold, but she felt no need to stop him, as unappealing as it seemed.

Rocket made another gagging noise before turning back towards the field. “Uh, guys...about the snowpeople…”

Everyone turned their heads in the direction Rocket was looking, only to realize that their creations had been the real casualty of their battle. They were covered in boot marks and imprints of the bodies that had fallen on them, utterly crushed to bits, splintered pieces of “arms” and scattered pebbles lying at their bases as if to signify the fallen soldier of their respective owners.

“Oh well,” Peter shrugged. “There’s always next time.”

So happy together...how is the weather...so happy together...we're happy together…

Once everyone had retreated back to the safety and (relative) warmth of the Milano, Gamora and Mantis began grabbing towels and extra blankets from the supply closet, with Gamora insisting everyone dry off and change before finally getting around to opening presents. Drax began making hot chocolate on the stove, while Peter pulled up the holo-screen and started playing Frosty the Snowman to keep Groot occupied while they waited.

“Peter? Why are there so many presents under here?” Gamora began poking around at the pile of boxes underneath the tree. She wasn’t sure when they had amassed to such an amount, but it had become something of a small mountain. “I know those are Janet’s back here…some from Stark…these are the ones for me from Natasha and Elektra and Val…but what’s all this?”

Peter turned away from the screen to join her by the tree, smiling at the sight of the hand-written ornaments they’d worked on not too long ago. His favorite was the one where Mantis had written “MY NEW FAMILY” in large, looping letters, surrounded by little hearts. “My current theory? Everyone kinda ignored Secret Santa and just got everyone else presents, too. I mean, that’s what I did.”

“As did I,” Gamora confessed. She couldn’t help it – shopping for her Secret Santa had only led to her seeing at least half a dozen things she wanted to buy for everyone else. “But doesn’t that ruin the intention of giving gifts to only one person?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said with a shrug. “Tradition’s tradition, but doesn’t mean we gotta stick to it, word-for-word. And hey, more presents for everyone. Can’t complain about that.”

“No, I suppose not,” Gamora replied, smiling. She turned to address the rest of the room. “Is everyone ready? Drax?”

He briskly strolled into the living room with a tray of steaming mugs of hot chocolate, wearing the gag apron Peter had gotten him for his birthday (it proclaimed in bright red letters across the chest: “kiss the chef”). “Yes, let us proceed,” Drax said proudly as he began distributing marshmallows into the drinks. Peter made a grab for the “World’s Best Dad” cup and passed Gamora the one that said “I Hate Mugs with Funny Slogans” (she really, really did). “Who will go first?”

“I think Peter should. After all, he is the one who encouraged all of these festivities,” Mantis suggested.

“I can get on board with that,” Gamora said as she settled onto the couch. “Besides, he’ll go crazy in anticipation otherwise. So, who was responsible for his gift?”

“Me,” Rocket said, raising a paw. “It don’t look like much until I explain it to you.” He passed Peter one of the tiniest boxes, a small rectangle the size of a paperback, wrapped in butcher’s paper and tied off with what was clearly some spare string he had lying around.

Peter ripped it open, curious about what Rocket meant, and opened the unassuming box inside. There, nestled in old newspaper, was an electronic device of some sort, vaguely resembling a remote. “Okay, I give. I can’t tell what it is. What’s it do?”

“I rewired a good chunk of the ship, including your precious tape deck,” Rocket explained, grinning so widely he was baring his canines. “That right there is a universal remote for the Milano. You wanna turn off the lights without walking around the whole ship? Pull down the holo-screen without getting up from the couch? Change the song playing on the tape? It’ll do it all. Genius, right?”

“Quill with remote access to the entire ship? Hoo boy,” Yondu winced.

“Rocket, I…thanks, dude!” Peter exclaimed, moving across the floor to pull Rocket into a giant hug. “This is awesome, man.” Rocket’s ears flattened at the sudden physical contact, before wrapping his arms around Peter’s neck as well, patting him awkwardly on the back. “I’m gonna use the crap outta this, trust me.”

“I’m already anticipating disaster. I’ll be sure to confiscate it if it becomes chaos,” Gamora muttered to Drax, who nodded sagely in agreement.

“I guess Rocket should be next then,” Peter said, sitting back down. “Who got Rocket’s present?”

“That would be me,” Gamora said. “Though I didn’t put it under the tree since it looks somewhat underwhelming. I promise it’s valuable, though.” She grabbed a small manila envelope from under the armchair and presented it to Rocket. “Go on, open it.”

Rocket eyed it doubtfully before breaking the seal on the envelope. Five small slips of paper fell into his lap, plain white paper with no special markings of any kind. The only thing on them, in Gamora’s neat handwriting, was the following:

GET-OUT-OF-MEETING-FREE CARD - ADMIT ONE

(Note: This does not apply to meetings pertaining to galaxy-wide emergencies. You don’t get to opt out of Thanos-level disasters, Rocket.)

“Considering you complain the loudest about my efforts to get everyone involved more than the others, I figured it would be a blessing for you to walk away without my interference,” Gamora added with a small chuckle. “I promise to say nothing more than ‘you’re dismissed’.”

“Gotta say, I was kinda skeptical at first, but I love it,” Rocket said happily, holding them up in triumph. “Thanks, Gam. You ain’t gonna see me at the next five monthly budget review meetings, that’s for sure.”

“I figured,” she laughed. “Just sign off on the ammo you need us to get and you’re in the clear.”

“I was responsible for your present, Gamora!” Mantis said excitedly, grabbing a lime green box with a matching ribbon bow on top. “I am hoping it will be of use to you.”

“I’m sure it will be,” Gamora said reassuringly. Unlike Peter and Rocket, she took care in peeling back the tape and untying the ribbon, neatly unfolding the wrappings to the point where Rocket was beginning to grow impatient again. “Oh, wow.”

Inside the box was what at first appeared to be just a small cube of soft black leather, no bigger than Gamora’s fist. However, once she picked it up, she realized it was tucked into itself at the corners. She began unfolding it, picking at the small strings and loops that held it together. When it was completely untangled from its own self, it was then that she recognized what it was – a brand new utility belt, complete with tiny pockets and a holster for her sword. Stitched on the inside of the front waistband was Gamora’s name in green thread that was a near-perfect match for her skin.

“What do you think?” Mantis asked nervously. “Since you are teaching fight classes in the new semester, I thought you might need a less bulky belt that would still allow you to store everything you would need, and something softer that would not weigh you down. Also, I hand-made it myself. I have been getting Janet to teach me how to sew for the past month.”

“Mantis, this is amazing,” Gamora said in a near-whisper, holding it up as if it were something precious – and to her, it was. “How did you figure out the loop-and-tie mechanism? It seems both intricate and effective.”

Mantis beamed, pleased. “It wasn’t easy,” she admitted. “But I’m so glad you like it.”

“Like it? I love it,” Gamora declared. “Thank you Mantis, it’s perfect.” She wrapped her arms around the younger girl, smiling when she felt Mantis let out a sigh of relief against her shoulder.

“And this is for you, bug-girl,” Yondu said with an unusual amount of fondness, handing her what appeared to be an old shoebox. Confused, Mantis accepted it, taking the lid off and setting it aside before gasping at the sight of its contents. “I sure hope that’s a good noise ya just made there.”

The shoebox contained stacks upon stacks of pictures, postcards, news clippings, and the like, from planets and star systems across the galaxy, places Mantis had only dreamed of seeing when she was a child. It was no secret that one of the biggest reasons she had joined the Guardians was to finally experience life outside of Ego’s planet, to meet new people, see new places, experience everything she had never gotten a chance to before. Of course, there were many planets they knew she would be unlikely to see, places where the Guardians would never be welcomed, but this was a good start.

“A little piece of most of the places us Ravagers have been. I even called up a few favors from the other factions, see what kinda trinkets they been collecting themselves,” Yondu smiled. “I know you got a lot of spirit in you, girl, you wanna see the world because you don’t know how crazy it can be quite as much as we do. But maybe this’ll give you an idea of what’s out there, the kinda fun you might get to have one day. Just ask Quill to take you there, he’s been to a bunch o’ those places. Have a good time.” Mantis sniffled as she began flipping through the documents, sighing happily at each new image. “Oh, no, you ain’t about to cry, are ya?”

“No,” she whimpered. Another strong inhale, this time rattling from her chest. “I still have some flu symptoms left.” Her bottom lip began to wobble. “But also, this is very kind of you. Thank you, Yondu!” Unable to contain her happiness no longer, she flung herself into Yondu’s arms, squeezing him so tightly he let out a rather undignified squeaking noise, unlike anything he’d ever made before.

“You got an iron grip, bug-girl, leggo,” he wheezed. She peeled away, giggling softly in apology before setting the box aside. “Alright, who was the unlucky fool who got stuck with me?”

“My present does not have a physical form,” Drax said, bowing his head. “So you will have to take my word for it, Yondu. But I noticed you have been quite glum lately, and were missing the company of your Ravagers. Groot told me after your last call to Kraglin that you were hoping to see them again soon. So, I made another call to Kraglin, and arranged for the Eclector to make a stop by Earth next week. I also got Director Fury’s permission. He will clear out space in the loading bay for them to land an M-ship and join us, along with excusing you from all your classes so you can take them around and show them your new home.”

Yondu blinked, at a loss for words. “R – really?” he stammered. Peter grinned – he’d never seen Yondu so flabbergasted before. “Boy, that’s…that’s mighty kind of you. You ain’t joking?”

“I would never joke about something so important to you,” Drax frowned. “I am not a cruel person.”

“No, you definitely ain’t,” Yondu agreed, clapping Drax on the back. “Thanks, Drax. Hey, maybe you could join us! I been telling the Ravagers a bunch of stories about good ol’ Drax the Destroyer. They’d be interested in meetin’ you.”

“I would be honored,” Drax replied, pleased, patting Yondu on the shoulder in return. He winced a little at the force of the impact.

“Is it finally my turn?” Nebula groaned. “I have been waiting for so long.”

“Nebula,” Gamora warned.

Ignoring her, Nebula pulled out a hastily-wrapped box from under the tree and shoved it into Drax’s arms. Without a word, she turned away from him, apparently in no rush to explain her present the way everyone else had done so far. Somewhat confused, he shrugged and tore open the packaging to find a set of wooden carvings that were hollowed out inside, complete with a sort of intricate scroll-like design around its opening. He turned them over, perplexed, and startling at the sight of a name engraved on the underside – Hovat. “What…what is this?”

Rolling her eyes, Nebula stalked over to him, yanked out one of his blades from his boot, grabbed one of the wooden pieces, and slid it perfectly onto its hilt. “Sturdier handles, you idiot. Hearing you complain about knuckle cramps day in, day out, because you don’t realize your knife handles aren’t perfectly balanced, is painfully annoying. I needed to put an end to it.”

“And Hovat’s name?”

“The engraving came free if you buy a set of two or more,” Nebula snapped. Peter was trying his hardest not to laugh – this was possibly the most aggressive act of gift-giving he had ever witnessed. “So? Do you like it or not?”

“It was very thoughtful of you, Nebula, thank you,” Drax said gently, a tearful smile beginning to form on his face. “I do like the idea of keeping my Hovat close by.” There was an awkward pause in which he considered whether to hug her or not, but then rightfully decided to avoid potentially losing his fingers in the process.

“Last but not least – drum roll, if you please – ” Mantis began enthusiastically drumming her hands on her legs “ – for you, Nebula.” Peter pulled out a key from his back pocket with a flourish and held it out to her.

“What the hell is this?” She snatched it up immediately, holding it to the light, expecting it to reveal further secrets.

“I know that all of us, me and Gamora especially, always bother you about being part of a team, part of a family, that kinda stuff. And you like being alone, which is totally fine. But the problem for you right now is, we know all your hiding spots, and we’re kinda guilty of tracking you down all the time. So, if you need somewhere to go where none of us can interfere, that key opens to the rooftop of the main library building. It’s in the middle of the campus so you can do all your weird people-watching, literally no one else has that key – not even Fury or any of the janitors – and I got it cleaned out. There was like, bird crap and tons of leaves up there. Anyways, that spot? It’s yours, and yours alone.”

“And you discussed this with her beforehand?” Nebula eyed Gamora suspiciously.

“No, actually, he didn’t. But I think it’s a good idea,” Gamora said softly. “We mean well, Nebula, but I know you like your solitude. I know I sometimes need a break from everyone, too. If it helps you deal with whatever’s going on in your head, take that key and put it to good use. But know that you can talk to us as well.”

Nebula swallowed. “Right. Uh, thanks, I guess.” She gave Peter the briefest of smiles, one that made him question if he had just briefly hallucinated. “I think I’ll be using this to get out of budget meetings as well.”

“I am Groot?” Groot looked up imploringly at the rest of the group, wondering what his present was going to be. Since Groot was the only one who couldn’t make money or really go shopping in the first place, he had been taken out of the running for Secret Santa, but he knew that the other Guardians had worked together to get him something, too.

“Well, Groot, y’know that room we have set aside for you when you’re more…humie-sized?” Rocket began, scooping him up. All the Guardians stood and walked down the corridor towards the bedrooms, where Peter unlocked said room and swung the door open wide for Groot to see. “We thought it was kinda stupid we haven’t been using this room for anything. Well, up until now. We got Stark to build you a little jungle gym in the meantime. Turns out he’s good for something after all.”

“It’s kinda based off of, like, hamster playsets. We’ve got tunnels going up to the ceiling, ladders, monkey bars, the whole nine yards,” Peter said proudly. Rocket set Groot down inside the room, watching as the little one stepped cautiously, his already-large eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“I am…Groot,” he breathed.

When Peter had first gone to Tony, requesting the jungle gym, he had stressed the importance of it not looking like Stark’s usual gadgets and gizmos – modern, metal, sleek and shiny – but rather like it had been built by bare hands and a bench, consisting mostly of carved wood. The bases were painted to look like tree stumps, the bridges and ladders consisted of wooden slats tied together with old rope, and the decorative pieces looked like winding spirals of vines and branches, like the kind that sprouted from Groot himself.

With an excitable shriek, Groot immediately began climbing up one of the ladders to the very top, peering down at them from the rope bridge. He waved at them eagerly before running around and around in circles, swinging across the monkey bars with ease. Mantis began filming him on her phone, cooing at the adorableness of it all.

“I am Groot,” he said happily, beaming.

“You’re welcome, man,” Rocket said, grinning back. “Now c’mon, the rest of us still got presents to open.”

The rest of the present opening was less of a dramatic affair, with everyone passing around wrapped packages in varying states of neatness while they sipped hot chocolate. Peter had turned on the radio for once instead of using his Walkman, letting the dulcet tones of Bing Crosby fill the room.

“Should’ve known this wasn’t going to go perfectly,” Gamora sighed as she crossed the room to settle into Peter’s side, watching as Nebula began presenting everybody else with garishly ugly socks. “She can’t help herself, can she? Regardless, I’d say it’s much better than last year. I was still finding bits of plasma in my hair a week after we returned from jail.”

“That was possibly the grossest mission we’ve ever been on,” Peter agreed. “So, I did end up getting you a present, by the way.”

“You buy me random trinkets so often I have nowhere to put them,” she teased, squeezing his waist affectionately. “What is it?”

“Well, you’ve been showing more interest in Terran culture lately, but you’ve only been seeing it from my perspective,” Peter explained. “And, y’know, as much as I like to pretend I know what’s going on, I know I’ve got a limited understanding of Earth. So I thought you would like to see it from a point of view that you’d identify with more.” He handed her a hardcover book – no wrappings or other fancies – watching her face nervously as she examined it.

“Bad Girls Throughout History - One Hundred Remarkable Women Who Changed The World,” she read slowly, eyes drinking in the hand-drawn illustrations. She fell silent as she read the description and flipped through it, her smile becoming softer with every page. “I guess this school doesn’t really delve too deeply into history outside of your world wars, does it?”

“And I figured if you wanted to learn more, badass Terran women would be a good place for you to start. I also got you a hundred dollars worth of store credit at that used bookstore in the city that you really like,” he added. “Do you like it?”

“I do, I really do,” she said, grinning as she kissed him. “Thank you, Peter. I’ll start reading it tonight. Oh, and I got you something as well.”

“What? Really?” He watched as she walked over to the tree and plucked out yet another tiny box, kneeling in front of him. “You didn’t have to, you know.”

“Did you really think I was going to get gifts for everyone else and not you?” she teased. “It barely cost me any units, so don’t worry. And I like taking part in your traditions, Peter, they intrigue me. So go on, open it.” He rubbed his hands together in excitement before removing the wrappings and the lid to unveil what was inside, eyes widening in shock when he realized what it was.

Nestled among neatly crinkled decorative tissue paper was a cassette tape, marked “For Peter”.

“Granted, we don’t share the same taste in music,” she continued. “Your music has grown on me substantially, however, so I compiled some of your favorites and some new things that should be to your liking.” Almost immediately, he pulled Gamora closer until she was practically straddling him, wrapping her tightly in his arms, burying his face in her neck. It had become his favorite place to be. She let out a surprised cry before returning the gesture with a soft laugh. “You haven’t listened to it yet, Peter, it could be awful.”

“You have no idea how much this means to me,” Peter murmured, kissing the crook of her jaw.

“I have an inkling.” She leaned back so she could gently slide the Walkman off his belt. “Here, give it a go.”

With slightly trembling fingers, Peter popped out the tape inside and slid the new one in, closing it with a satisfying snap. He slotted the headphones snugly over his ears before turning one side outwards so Gamora could hear what he was listening to. He took a soft breath for pause in anticipation, before pressing play.

Oh, I could hide 'neath the wings...of the bluebird as she sings...the six-o'clock alarm would never ring...but six rings and I rise...wipe the sleep out of my eyes...the shaving razor's cold and it stings…

Humming softly with the melody, Peter began drumming out the beat on the small of Gamora’s back with the pads of his fingers once the chorus began, apparently having no intentions of letting her go. She was fine with that – she’d gotten rather comfortable here, though she had a feeling the moment the other Guardian stopped arguing with each other over Nebula’s godforsaken socks, they would spot them and tease them once again.

Now you know how happy I can be...oh, and our good time starts and ends...without all I want to spend...but how much, baby, do we really need?...

“Not much, really,” he said quietly in response, grinning almost shyly. “I think I’ve got all I need right here on this ship.”

“Ever the romantic,” she said fondly, cupping his jaw and leaning in. “Happy holidays, Peter Quill.”

Cheer up sleepy Jean...oh, what can it mean...to a daydream believer and a homecoming queen?... ______

“Is there a reason we’re out here freezin’ our asses off? You tryna prank us, boy?” Yondu said through chattering teeth. He and Drax were having a rare moment of solidarity, huddled together underneath one of Yondu’s ostentatiously enormous fur-lined coats.

“It’s not my fault you didn’t wear enough. I told you where we were going,” Peter protested, though mostly because he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction that he, too, was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers and toes. Gamora, who wasn’t about to let Peter freeze to death or, more importantly, start yet another dick-measuring contest, practically shoved herself into his side, hoping her higher body temperature would warm him up before he started making excuses.

“That don’t explain things,” Rocket snapped. “What’re we doing, Quill? This can’t be another one of your holiday traditions, holiday’s over.”

“Uh, not quite,” Peter said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve, when everyone makes these big declarations of how they’re gonna change in the new year. And I know Gamora likes it when we set goals and talk about what we wanna do about our future, so I thought we’d just, like, do it together. Talk about what we wanna do.”

“But did we have to do it on the roof?” Nebula exclaimed, kicking some fresh snow to punctuate her point, sending a gentle spray of ice flying over everyone’s laps.

The Guardians were indeed on the roof of the Avengers Hall, where they hadn’t been since Halloween night. It wasn’t snowing nearly as hard as it had been for most of the month, having slowed to a near stop, but it was still below freezing, leaving everyone a little cranky and worse for the wear.

As predicted, Christmas hadn’t magically solved all of the squabbles and fights they’d been having. Nebula and Rocket got into yet another spat over nothing, Groot had a tantrum when he accidentally broke one of the swings on his new gym set, and Drax became boorish, confronted with his memories of Hovat once more. Yondu was secretly too excited to see his boys again to really let anything bother him, and he stayed clear of everyone else’s paths. Peter and Gamora were still in relative romantic bliss (Peter insisted they were going to be in the so-called ‘honeymoon stage’ forever), aside from the time she had tripped over the jacket he had left on their bedroom floor and nearly banged her head on the corner of his desk. Still, they were a little less high-strung and snappish than usual, mellowed out for the most part (Gamora blamed it on the spiked eggnog. She wasn’t sure who to blame it on, but it certainly made Rocket and Yondu more agreeable than usual). Peter considered it to be a welcome change, even though he knew it was going to be temporary. The next major fight, a particularly stressful job or mission, was most definitely going to restore the Guardians’ status quo.

“Well, excuse me for wanting to have a nice moment,” Peter complained.

“I think it is a good idea,” Mantis piped up. “I have always said it is good for us to discuss these things together.”

“Thank you, Mantis,” Peter said triumphantly, as if her word declared the consensus of the entire group. “First on the agenda – I know these were supposed to be here earlier, but with Surtur tryna cause Ragnarok, and Hela coming after Thor here on Earth, Fury’s had his hands full. But better late than never.” He produced two envelopes from his knapsack and held them out to Yondu and Nebula. “Welcome to the Guardians of the Galaxy. I dunno why there needs to be paperwork, but, uh, just go with it.”

“I’ll be,” Yondu said cheerily, ripping it open and grinning in ecstasy at the official declaration. “Never thought it’d be the kinda gig I’d be offered, what with my reputation, but I ain’t complaining if it gets me units and fame.”

“C’mon, Yondu, we know that’s not all you’re about,” Peter chuckled, patting him on the back. “But congrats, dude. I’m proud of you.”

Nebula, however, was still staring at the envelope in her hands as if she were expecting it to spontaneously burst into flames. Gamora watched her cautiously for a moment before pulling away from Peter’s embrace to gently grasp her arm. “Nebula…I know I’ve been pressuring you a lot lately about being part of this team. But that choice is yours to make. If you prefer to just remain a student and not accompany us as a Guardian, I understand. It doesn’t mean we’ll kick you out or abandon you.”

“How did you accept it so easily?” Nebula’s voice was so quiet, only Gamora could hear. “Pretending to be a saint, and forgetting you were ever a sinner?”

“You sound like you’ve been talking to Murdock too often,” Gamora commented with a shake of her head. “I haven’t forgotten what I’ve done, Nebula. But I just want to move past it, and this is how I do it. Every planet that I help, every life that I save – and maybe this sounds selfish – it makes me feel better. It restores my faith in myself, and that’s where I need to start. I no longer feel the need to answer for what I did when I served Thanos, because this right here? This is my answer. My new purpose. And maybe it’s yours as well. But it doesn’t have to be.”

“Well, not that legality has ever stopped me before, but I suppose having it can’t hurt.” Nebula gave her a tentative smile before tearing the envelope open, staring at the neatly-typed print of her name at the very top, scanning over the brief paragraph that congratulated her on her official Guardian membership. “Quill, this doesn’t mean it gives you the right to tell me what to do.”

“Actually, that’s kind of exactly what it means,” Peter shot back. “Whether you listen is a different story.”

Nebula blanched at his response before smirking, somewhat impressed. “He bites back,” she snorted. “Maybe my sister didn’t choose so poorly after all. Alright then, Quill. How does this ‘resolution’ thing work?”

“Well, I was thinking we could each set one personal goal and one goal for the group,” Peter suggested. “Here, we’ll write it out.” He pulled out his holo-tab and opened a blank note, its large projector screen hovering in front of everyone’s faces. “Who wants to start?”

“Me,” Mantis said, waving a hand in the air enthusiastically like a schoolchild. “I do like helping you all with your feelings. I believe it is one of my greatest purposes here. But I have spent so much time assisting you, that I have not taken the time to understand myself. So I would like to spend more time focusing on who I am and who I want to be. Does that make sense?” She looked around at them, her eyes darting from person to person nervously. Drax patted her in reassurance, smiling encouragingly. “Um, and I think one thing we could do as a group is confront our problems right away. Many of the fights we have had are simply because of miscommunication. If we clarify our issues early on, then maybe they will not happen as often.”

“That’s a great idea, Mantis,” Gamora praised. “Granted, I don’t know if it’ll work, but there’s no harm in trying.”

“Is that you volunteering to go next?” Peter said with a quirk of his eyebrows as he finished typing Mantis’s suggestion.

“Fine,” Gamora said, though not before fixing him with a glare. “I want to have a more active role in this school’s community. I spent far too long in the first year of us being here wallowing in self-doubt, assuming everyone despised me. In reality, this planet has very little idea of my past. I don’t want to miss the opportunity for more allies in our eventual fight against Thanos, so maybe I need to take advantage of that. Besides, having friends doesn’t seem so bad after all,” she added with a chuckle. “As for the team…I’ve been saying for a while now, if we all just have stronger focus, stronger discipline, we won’t have as many issues. I wouldn’t lecture you all nearly as much as I do if you paid more attention. Look at Peter, for example. His productivity is much improved.”

“That’s probably ‘cause you got him wrapped around your finger, but okay,” Rocket snorted. “Alright, I’ll go next. I was thinkin’ about other ways to make some quick cash, make myself useful while we’re here, so I think I wanna offer up my services as an engineer. Teach other people how to fix their crap. Plus, that money’ll strictly be mine and I won’t have to share with you losers. And, it’ll piss off Stark. As for all of us…I dunno, if you guys can learn more about how to do quick fixes on the ship, that’d save me a lot of time. I can teach ya.” His eyes suddenly widened. “Wait, can I charge you guys for engineering tutorials?”

“No, Rocket,” Gamora said sternly. He muttered a couple choice nonsensical words under his breath in response, though nothing distinctive enough for her enhanced hearing to catch.

“Like Gamora, I like the idea of having more companionship in my life,” Drax said thoughtfully. He was twirling one of his blades absentmindedly, watching as Hovat’s engraved name spun over and over as he did. He knew he would never find one quite like her, but he didn’t have to. He didn’t want a replacement Hovat. Romantic pursuits were about the last thing on his mind, at least for now. “Perhaps I will reach out to the other warriors on campus, see if we are as like-minded as I hoped. Thor, Korg, Hulk…”

“You can all bond over having four-letter mononymous names,” Peter suggested. Gamora prodded him in warning. “Ow. I’m just saying.”

“In regards to the team…I must admit, I don’t spend as much time with you all as I would like,” Drax continued, ignoring Peter’s quip. “I think these traditions of yours, Quill…while they might seem strange to us, I suppose much of our culture also seems foreign to you. Such as my father’s story of impregnating my mother.” The others winced – it was frankly foreign to everyone. “But they also made me appreciate everyone more, not just as people to fight with, but as my family. I think we should engage in more non-combative activities to strengthen our bond.”

“It’ll be difficult with school and missions and the other craziness we’ve got going on, but I like where your mind’s at,” Peter replied, pleased.

“My mind is right where it has always been,” Drax said firmly.

“Right, my turn,” Yondu interrupted. “I aim to do better at school. I like the idea of getting my criminal record wiped clean, and that won’t happen if I keep skippin’ classes and filling out them Scantrons with nothin’ but A’s.”

“And answering every question that begins with ‘can you explain’ with ‘no’,” Gamora added.

“And nappin’ under the desk in the engineering labs,” Rocket continued.

“And writing my name on all of your essays!” Peter exclaimed. “Dude, I almost failed Criminology because of you. I’m not even taking Criminology!”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard ya,” Yondu grumbled. “Like I was sayin’ – I’ll try harder next semester. And I honestly got nothing for the rest of us to do, because you’ve all suggested just about everything already. I like Drax’s suggestion of more fun, though. That’s all I want outta life.”

“Fair enough,” Gamora nodded. “Nebula? Thoughts?”

“Well, you all appear to be on a self-improvement kick. How predictable,” Nebula snarked, turning around so her back was against the railing, arms folded firmly over her chest. Sitting on the snow-covered ground was starting to leave unflattering wet spots on everyone’s backsides. “I’ll just settle with figuring out my role on this team. I don't care to worry about the rest of you. I don't have the patience for it."

“Well, at least you’re honest,” Gamora sighed. “Groot?”

“I am Groot,” he suggested tentatively from his spot on Rocket’s shoulder. “I am Groot?”

“Fewer tantrums sounds awesome, dude,” Peter chuckled. “Am I the last one? Okay then, uh…I wanna be a better leader. I know I do a lot of talking, but I wanna listen more. At least, this talk we’re having right now, that’s a start, right? I just…I get so excited thinking about what I do for a living, and who I get to do it with, and I want us to be the best damn heroes this galaxy’s ever seen. But…I know it’s hard to do that without great leadership. Not that that’s a slight against you, Gamora, you’re doing awesome,” he added quickly.

“I had no doubts,” she said dryly, though she reached to squeeze his hand in thanks. “And your suggestion for the Guardians as a whole?”

“This is kinda adding on to Mantis’s, but…don’t feel like you have to keep your thoughts and feelings to yourself.” He smiled at them ruefully. “We’ve all dealt with shit. We’re still dealing with shit every day. But as Gamora likes to tell me, two of the most important things in relationships are trust and honesty. So like, say something if you’re having a bad day, or you don’t like something that’s been going on. We’re a team, not a bunch of people who just happen to work together.”

“Thought you were about to launch into another motivational speech for a second, and I zoned out,” Rocket snorted. “But sure, I’ll bite, Quill. More talking, like we don’t got enough of that already. Can we go now? There’s icicles in my fur, and it ain’t pleasant.”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go, grumpy,” Peter laughed, getting to his feet. Everyone began following suit, chatting nonsensically to each other as they did. It was beginning to snow again, this time in small, but densely packed flakes. “Okay, we really need to get outta here, come on!”

They filed in through the roof access door one by one, shivering profusely. Nebula hesitated, wondering whether now was the right time to do it. Well, you’ve never been scared before, what’s stopping you this time? she thought, watching as the others vanished from sight. “Mantis,” she called.

The other girl turned in the doorway, blinking at her in confusion. “Is something wrong?” she asked, taking a tentative step forward. Nebula supposed she couldn’t blame her for being cautious – her hands were clasped behind her back, probably giving Mantis the impression she was about to pull out a blade or something.

“When I was at the mall with Quill, he mentioned that you were on a personal journey or whatever.” She practically shoved the item into Mantis’s gut, causing her to let out a small “oof”. “I thought this might be of use, especially since – like brother, like sister – you like to talk so much.”

Though the snow was starting to blur her vision, Mantis could vaguely make out what she was looking at – a book, heavy with a plush green cover, the word ‘journal’ embossed in gold cursive. Each page, made of thick cream-colored stock, was edged with gold to match. There were prompts on every other page, suggestions of what to write or think about, along with a small box to mark moods and feelings. It was the sort of thing Nebula scoffed at, something she would describe as “utterly pretentious”, but to Mantis, it was a step in the right direction.

“This must have been quite expensive,” Mantis pondered aloud, looking back up at Nebula. Her large eyelashes were now coated with flecks of snow, making her eyes appear even bigger than usual, cheeks unusually flushed.

“I can take it back if you don’t want it,” Nebula snapped, taking another step forward to snatch it back. Mantis immediately leaped away, clutching the book to her chest protectively.

“No, I do, it’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Thank you for the gift. I will most definitely put it to good use.” She smiled softly, reaching to awkwardly pat the other girl’s shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Nebula.”

“Christmas is over, you weirdo,” Nebula huffed, hastily brushing past her to catch up with the rest of the Guardians. Mantis chuckled to herself before turning to hurry down the stairs. It really was getting too cold for comfort, though if her chest was feeling a little warmer than it had been a minute ago, no one needed to know.

a/n: happy holidays, lovelies! i hope this fic gave you the warm fuzzies like it did when i was writing it. i also wanted to explore some other dynamics this time around instead of solely focusing on peter/gamora as i usually do, so i hope you enjoyed that as well.

some present visuals - this is the book that peter gave gamora (11/10, would recommend, by the way), and groot's gym somewhat looks like this, but if you've ever been to one of those indoor children's play centers you kinda get what i mean. aso, two more songs from peter's mix, "for gamora" - december 1963: oh, what a night by the four seasons, and happy together by the turtles. The song from gamora’s mix, “for peter”, is daydream believer by the monkees. also, rocket's backstory with lylla is partially based on their telltale counterparts, in case any of you were wondering what she looks like.

since this is the last twenty questions fic of the year, i just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who has read this fic and any of the others in this series! this 'verse is kind of my baby and i love being able to play around with the different relationships and ongoing storylines. i'm currently working on my other huge au, everybody wants to rule the world, so i won't be writing as much for this one at the moment, but hopefully, i'll have another one-shot in this series for valentine's day!

again, thank you so so so much for reading, i hope you enjoyed it as much as i loved writing it. likes and reblogs would be much appreciated, and i'll see you all next time!

#starmora #peter x gamora #gamora x peter #peter quill #gamora #myfic #myfic: 20q #marvel #happy holidays fam jam!!#also longest author's note ever or what lmao

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