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So I'm over an hour late, but whatever.
The break has been awesome yet continues to carry its own special brand of holiday stress.
But hey. Merry Christmas :)
For Listening
Sambakza.net updated its Doki and Nabi series with the final installment a few weeks ago. Here is the song.
For Non-Fandom Reading
I rec Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman whenever anyone asks. I also want to pass on Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami, if you'd prefer something a little more serious.
For Cheesy Romantic Happiness by Proxy
So back in college I'm totally into this guy but in denial about it, and vice versa. I'm sitting in class before it starts, and from my vantage point I can see the escalators. And I'm just sitting there, watching the escalators and waiting for him to appear. And then he does, and he's totally looking in the direction of the classroom, waiting for me to appear. And we're still in denial about it all, but a part of us knows, really knows, and we can't help but smile at each other.
For Watching
For Fandom-related Holiday Reading
Title(s): Christmas Morning in Increments of Five
Pairing: RrB/PpG
Rating: PG-13 for language and implied booty call
Parts: One of one
Disclaimer: Love 'em, don't own 'em.
Summary: Alternate title might be "How to Have the Best Christmas Ever."
Notes: Ridiculously fluffy. I hope you enjoy your Christmas morning extra sweet, because you'll probably need the insulin tomorrow. 1,225 words.
Christmas Morning in Increments of Five
-sbj-
At Age Five
It's early Christmas morning, and the only word that can describe Butch's current emotion is giddy—obviously not one that jumps to mind when one thinks of the boy, but there's simply no other way to accurately convey the particular bounce in his step, the twist of his grin, the sparkle in his eye. The compact ball of ice cold snow he's holding rolls between his hands, and if he isn't careful his ammo will melt completely before he's had a chance to fire it.
The sudden sound of a door creaking open registers, and he ducks back behind the convenient snowman in their yard, picturing it all in his head as it's happening—the swing of that bright red door, the girls shouting their thanks to the Professor, the crunch of the snow underneath their feet as they dash outside in a frenzied bid to put their new toys to good use.
When it matters, Butch is an excellent listener. He picks out her step, more haphazard and frantic than her sisters, the sharp peal of laughter that escapes her throat and cuts into the air, and he shoots out from his hiding spot and fires his snowball with all his might at his target.
The laughter abruptly stops, and the girls stare at him open-mouthed and wide-eyed. He gives them a devious grin. It's the look that absolutely kills him, that furious shock in her green eyes, the bits of snow clinging to her face and hair, the redness in her cheeks from the sting of his strike and the winter morning chill.
It kills him, absolutely kills him. And it's better than any gift he could ever think to ask for.
“Merry Christmas, Buttercup!” he crows, taking off into the air, knowing she'll give chase, knowing the skies will erupt with her screams any second now, knowing that this day will end in a protracted flash of green and red and white all around, and he wouldn't have the holiday without her any other way.
At Age Fifteen
It's early Christmas morning, and he's kicking himself in the head for running late. Boomer's not a morning person, and even though he tried, really really tried, to the point where he chugged like five gallons of water before going to bed and just wound up waking every hour instead of really early like he'd originally intended, today is proving to be no exception.
He hugs the box to his chest, shielding it in his jacket from the wind—he doesn't have much talent for wrapping things either, but he worked really hard on this one, bow and all, and besides that it better make it there in one piece because he's had a real “fun” time trying to keep it hidden from his brothers. Not just the package, but the reasons for giving it.
Her family's already up and bustling around when he peeks in the living room window—shoot, so much for adding it to the pile underneath the tree. Maybe he could sneak it up to their room, hide it in her stuffed animals or something... hopefully she's got a pile of them; he imagines she's the type of girl who'd have a stuffed animal corner for the rest of her life.
He darts up to the second floor and freezes. She reacts in kind.
It takes a second for the two of them to register the scene, but eventually Boomer puts it all together—Bubbles all bundled up, one hand on the open window as she's halfway outside, the meticulously wrapped gift under her arm with a very distinct tag signed in her loopy handwriting, To Boomer, From Bubbles.
He blinks and looks at her. Her own eyes dart to the gift in his hands, and it hits him.
“Oh... Merry Christmas,” he says lamely, holding his gift out stiffly to her.
She pauses before reaching for it, gingerly lifting it out of his hands and replacing it with her own. “Um... yeah,” she says quietly, the surprise in her gaze softening into something he can't quite describe until she looks at him and smiles. Funny how a look like that feels like a sucker punch to the gut.
“Same to you,” she says, knocking the wind out of him again for good measure, and yet, despite all this suffering, he can still safely say this is undoubtedly the best Christmas he's ever had.
At Age Twenty-Five
It's early Christmas morning, and several things are confusing Brick as he wakes up. First is the location, but it doesn't take long to remember the hotel room, with its large open windows and king-size canopy bed. Her side is rumpled and empty—no surprise there—but he's astonished to see her shadow against the drawn curtains of the canopy as she moves in the sunlight streaming through the window.
He tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes, tries to form a coherent question with his addled brain, but then there's a knock on the door and he abruptly turns his head. He crawls over her side and fumbles for the opening to the curtains, failing miserably and instead tumbling to an undignified heap on the floor.
“Oh good! You're awake.” A fully dressed Blossom thanks the busboy at the door and wheels in a little cart laden with food. “Hungry?”
“What is this?” Brick croaks, trying to right himself. “I thought—I thought you'd be at your dad's by now.”
She laughs, a sweet little sound that only serves to baffle him further, and dashes over, pulling him to his feet. “Surprised?”
He lets her wrap a robe around his shoulders and blinks. “Um, yeah. I mean... it's Christmas.” He shakes his head and considers for a second. “It is Christmas, right?”
“It most definitely is Christmas,” she affirms, acquiring a piece of toast for herself and waving at him to sit. He obediently complies and takes a bite of the toast she offers him.
“So why are you... don't you spend it with your family?”
“Typically, yes,” she says as she pours him some coffee. “Here. You very obviously need this.”
“But what are you doing here with me?”
She doesn't respond for a second, merely examines her breakfast and plays with the silverware on the cart. “Well,” she says slowly, lifting her eyes to his before shifting off her chair and into his lap. “I thought I'd spend this one with you.”
Even in his not-entirely-conscious state, the statement slams into his brain like a ton of... well, you know. It's only a few words, but the implications are immeasurable when he takes into account that she's never—ever—chosen him over family when given the choice.
“Merry Christmas, Brick,” she whispers, kissing his chin, a little gesture that almost makes him shiver and damn near melts his heart, until he realizes that she's just one-upped him this year, possibly every year for the rest of their lives, should they be so lucky to spend them together. And then he realizes that he really doesn't care.
He wraps his arms around her, pulls her close as she perfunctorily squirms and laughs. He's conscious enough for this.
“The hell with Christmas,” he murmurs, meaning every word of what he's said and is about to say. “I love you, too.”
-fin-
♥ sbj
PS. Thank you to everyone who gifted me. LOVE.
But hey. Merry Christmas :)
For Listening
Sambakza.net updated its Doki and Nabi series with the final installment a few weeks ago. Here is the song.
For Non-Fandom Reading
I rec Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman whenever anyone asks. I also want to pass on Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami, if you'd prefer something a little more serious.
For Cheesy Romantic Happiness by Proxy
So back in college I'm totally into this guy but in denial about it, and vice versa. I'm sitting in class before it starts, and from my vantage point I can see the escalators. And I'm just sitting there, watching the escalators and waiting for him to appear. And then he does, and he's totally looking in the direction of the classroom, waiting for me to appear. And we're still in denial about it all, but a part of us knows, really knows, and we can't help but smile at each other.
For Watching
For Fandom-related Holiday Reading
Title(s): Christmas Morning in Increments of Five
Pairing: RrB/PpG
Rating: PG-13 for language and implied booty call
Parts: One of one
Disclaimer: Love 'em, don't own 'em.
Summary: Alternate title might be "How to Have the Best Christmas Ever."
Notes: Ridiculously fluffy. I hope you enjoy your Christmas morning extra sweet, because you'll probably need the insulin tomorrow. 1,225 words.
Christmas Morning in Increments of Five
-sbj-
At Age Five
It's early Christmas morning, and the only word that can describe Butch's current emotion is giddy—obviously not one that jumps to mind when one thinks of the boy, but there's simply no other way to accurately convey the particular bounce in his step, the twist of his grin, the sparkle in his eye. The compact ball of ice cold snow he's holding rolls between his hands, and if he isn't careful his ammo will melt completely before he's had a chance to fire it.
The sudden sound of a door creaking open registers, and he ducks back behind the convenient snowman in their yard, picturing it all in his head as it's happening—the swing of that bright red door, the girls shouting their thanks to the Professor, the crunch of the snow underneath their feet as they dash outside in a frenzied bid to put their new toys to good use.
When it matters, Butch is an excellent listener. He picks out her step, more haphazard and frantic than her sisters, the sharp peal of laughter that escapes her throat and cuts into the air, and he shoots out from his hiding spot and fires his snowball with all his might at his target.
The laughter abruptly stops, and the girls stare at him open-mouthed and wide-eyed. He gives them a devious grin. It's the look that absolutely kills him, that furious shock in her green eyes, the bits of snow clinging to her face and hair, the redness in her cheeks from the sting of his strike and the winter morning chill.
It kills him, absolutely kills him. And it's better than any gift he could ever think to ask for.
“Merry Christmas, Buttercup!” he crows, taking off into the air, knowing she'll give chase, knowing the skies will erupt with her screams any second now, knowing that this day will end in a protracted flash of green and red and white all around, and he wouldn't have the holiday without her any other way.
At Age Fifteen
It's early Christmas morning, and he's kicking himself in the head for running late. Boomer's not a morning person, and even though he tried, really really tried, to the point where he chugged like five gallons of water before going to bed and just wound up waking every hour instead of really early like he'd originally intended, today is proving to be no exception.
He hugs the box to his chest, shielding it in his jacket from the wind—he doesn't have much talent for wrapping things either, but he worked really hard on this one, bow and all, and besides that it better make it there in one piece because he's had a real “fun” time trying to keep it hidden from his brothers. Not just the package, but the reasons for giving it.
Her family's already up and bustling around when he peeks in the living room window—shoot, so much for adding it to the pile underneath the tree. Maybe he could sneak it up to their room, hide it in her stuffed animals or something... hopefully she's got a pile of them; he imagines she's the type of girl who'd have a stuffed animal corner for the rest of her life.
He darts up to the second floor and freezes. She reacts in kind.
It takes a second for the two of them to register the scene, but eventually Boomer puts it all together—Bubbles all bundled up, one hand on the open window as she's halfway outside, the meticulously wrapped gift under her arm with a very distinct tag signed in her loopy handwriting, To Boomer, From Bubbles.
He blinks and looks at her. Her own eyes dart to the gift in his hands, and it hits him.
“Oh... Merry Christmas,” he says lamely, holding his gift out stiffly to her.
She pauses before reaching for it, gingerly lifting it out of his hands and replacing it with her own. “Um... yeah,” she says quietly, the surprise in her gaze softening into something he can't quite describe until she looks at him and smiles. Funny how a look like that feels like a sucker punch to the gut.
“Same to you,” she says, knocking the wind out of him again for good measure, and yet, despite all this suffering, he can still safely say this is undoubtedly the best Christmas he's ever had.
At Age Twenty-Five
It's early Christmas morning, and several things are confusing Brick as he wakes up. First is the location, but it doesn't take long to remember the hotel room, with its large open windows and king-size canopy bed. Her side is rumpled and empty—no surprise there—but he's astonished to see her shadow against the drawn curtains of the canopy as she moves in the sunlight streaming through the window.
He tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes, tries to form a coherent question with his addled brain, but then there's a knock on the door and he abruptly turns his head. He crawls over her side and fumbles for the opening to the curtains, failing miserably and instead tumbling to an undignified heap on the floor.
“Oh good! You're awake.” A fully dressed Blossom thanks the busboy at the door and wheels in a little cart laden with food. “Hungry?”
“What is this?” Brick croaks, trying to right himself. “I thought—I thought you'd be at your dad's by now.”
She laughs, a sweet little sound that only serves to baffle him further, and dashes over, pulling him to his feet. “Surprised?”
He lets her wrap a robe around his shoulders and blinks. “Um, yeah. I mean... it's Christmas.” He shakes his head and considers for a second. “It is Christmas, right?”
“It most definitely is Christmas,” she affirms, acquiring a piece of toast for herself and waving at him to sit. He obediently complies and takes a bite of the toast she offers him.
“So why are you... don't you spend it with your family?”
“Typically, yes,” she says as she pours him some coffee. “Here. You very obviously need this.”
“But what are you doing here with me?”
She doesn't respond for a second, merely examines her breakfast and plays with the silverware on the cart. “Well,” she says slowly, lifting her eyes to his before shifting off her chair and into his lap. “I thought I'd spend this one with you.”
Even in his not-entirely-conscious state, the statement slams into his brain like a ton of... well, you know. It's only a few words, but the implications are immeasurable when he takes into account that she's never—ever—chosen him over family when given the choice.
“Merry Christmas, Brick,” she whispers, kissing his chin, a little gesture that almost makes him shiver and damn near melts his heart, until he realizes that she's just one-upped him this year, possibly every year for the rest of their lives, should they be so lucky to spend them together. And then he realizes that he really doesn't care.
He wraps his arms around her, pulls her close as she perfunctorily squirms and laughs. He's conscious enough for this.
“The hell with Christmas,” he murmurs, meaning every word of what he's said and is about to say. “I love you, too.”
-fin-
♥ sbj
PS. Thank you to everyone who gifted me. LOVE.
no subject
Too little too late, but I decided a few nights ago that someone needs to write a parody of A Christmas Carol with Brick as Scrooge, Mojo as Marley, the girls as the ghosts, his brothers as Cratchett and George... do I really need to go on?
no subject