a/n: i was stretching it a little bit on some of these, but you get the picture...enjoy!
warnings: none! pure, tooth-rotting fluff!
requests are open!
as much as yelena LOVES american holidays and traditions, she's not very clear on all of them
like trick-or-treating
she honestly thought that it was like a truth or dare thing where the trick-or-treater would choose one and that's what they would get
and last new years, when you were visiting your family with her, she nearly grabbed her gun when your family members opened doors and yelled that something was rushing out the door
you had to physically restrain her, which was very hard by the way, just to explain to her that new years tradition
her most recent confusion was about the 12 days of christmas song
she thought that it was a tradition for americans to give their loved ones gifts on the twelve days leading up until christmas
december 14
on december 14, yelena gave you 12 pieces of paper in a jar
needless to say, you were very confused
but when you looked closer at those pieces of paper, you noticed her handwriting on them
you pulled the slips of paper out of the jar and read each one
it took you a moment to realize that she was listing twelve reasons why she loved you
her reasons went as such:
you let me protect you
you listen and try to understand
you never judge me
you try to take care of me (even when i don't want you to)
you can always make me laugh
you enjoy eating the food i cook
you make me smile when you smile
your beautiful, perfect face
you don't mind my family no matter how annoying they are
you are gentle and thoughtful
you never second-guess choosing me
you are you, and that's enough
december 15
on december 15, yelena gave you 11 HUGE bouquets of all of the colors of the rainbow
the flowers she chose were:
calla lily (white)
azalea (pink)
rose (red)
tulip (orange)
sunflower (yellow)
carnation (green)
blue daisy (light blue)
iris (blue)
lavender (indigo)
lilac (purple)
winter pansy (black)
december 16
on december 16, yelena took you to a nearby bowling alley
for every pin you did (or didn't) knock down, of which there are 10, she gave you a kiss
for one game, that would be like 20 kisses
and you didn't play just once
december 17
on december 17, yelena gave you a 3 year old cat (with 9 lives)
it was a BEAUTIFUL fluffy ragdoll
it was mainly white with brownish-greyish bits on the tail and face
you literally fell in love with it
yelena explained to you that she had gotten her from a shelter and she was about to be put down since nobody wanted her
you named her dima, which means "strong warrior"
december 18
on december 18, yelena gave you 8 pies
of course, yelena made them all herself
how? you had no clue
nevertheless, they were AMAZING
she had made:
cherry pie
pecan pie
pumpkin pie
blueberry pie
apple pie
peach pie
coconut cream pie
december 19
on december 19, yelena gave you tickets for 7 separate vacations to each of the seven continents of the world
they were planned for the summer, of course
naturally, you were very excited
december 20
on december 20, yelena gave you a simple little poem that she wrote with 6 lines
she wrote:
"once i sat engaged and blessing,
remembering many romances, beloved desires,
when my heart got stuck in the briars.
i awoke and flung the feeling;
shook and spun off nature's dart,
realizing i was the bur upon your heart.
yelena <3"
december 21
on december 21, yelena took you on a day trip through all 5 of the boroughs in new york
on your little trip, you saw or went on:
the bronx zoo and new york botanical garden in the bronx
the brooklyn bridge and dyker heights in brooklyn
the rockefeller center tree and times square in manhattan
museum of the moving image and cunningham park in queens
the staten island ferry and the boat graveyard in staten island
december 22
on december 22, yelena introduced you to the fantastic four
johnny, of course, tried his hardest to get your number, but stopped after his sister, sue, gave him a dirty glare
ben was pretty intimidating
i mean, how could he not be
he was huge
but he was really nice
and so was sue and reed
ugh you loved sue immediately
she was so kind and friendly (and got her brother to stop flirting with you), so what was there not to like?
and reed talked the most, but he seemed really smart and nice
overall, a great experience
you thanked yelena with as many kisses as she would allow
december 23
on december 23, yelena gave you every movie from each of the star wars trilogies
that's a total of 19 hours and 39 minutes worth of star wars movies
naturally, you two spent the rest of the day, curled up on the couch while watching them together
well, you weren't watching the whole time
of course, sometimes one or both of you fell asleep or just had a conversation mid-movie
the movie wasn't that important to either of you though, so it was okay
december 24, christmas eve
on december 24, christmas eve, yelena gave you a pair of ice skates
yelena knew that you were interested in skating, so she thought to get you a pair
and these weren't just a crappy beginner's pair
no, not even close
these were literally over $100,000
like hello?? yelena?? what are you doing spending that much on a pair of ice skates
you were super grateful though
you ended up going out that night to a local skating rink and trying them out
(you loved them)
december 25, christmas day
and finally, on december 25, christmas day, yelena gave you a box
it was a simple, little, velvet box
there was no fancy decoration or anything
it was just a box
but how yelena gave it to you and its contents were not so simple
you opened it and saw a ring
a beautifully adorned ring with a HUGE diamond in the center
when you looked back to her, she was on one knee
she opened her mouth to make some huge speech about how much she loved you
but you didn't need to hear it
you already knew all about that
you didn't even give her a chance to talk
you just whispered a gentle 'yes' and kissed her like you never had before
and that was the greatest gift of all...not the ring
no, you couldn't care less about the ring
it was yelena that was the gift you cherished most
Sam Manson was an infuriating person to get gifts for, mostly because she was unhelpful.
“I don’t have anything on my list.”
Tucker and Danny groan as the goth shrugged at their dismay.
“C’mon, Sam. Literally anything.”
“I have everything. I’m your rich friend. I should be asking you guys what you want.”
“Well I’ve been eying Dead Teacher’s collector edition for a while now and-”“What Tuck means is, we know what we want. What can we get you?”
Sam puts her finger on her chin looking at the grey sky as they walk home.
“I would love a South American country.”
“Sam…”
“It’s the one thing my parents would never get me.” she sighs, melancholy and painfully sarcastic.
Danny and Tucker look at each other and she smiles at them.
“Really, I’m fine. Get me something small. Something you think I’d like and I’m sure I’ll love it.”
“You don’t like anything.”
“I like you just fine despite everything.” she teases and Danny grins back.
“Okay, well why don’t we agree on ten dollars and we can make something for each other.”
Tucker bobs his head side to side in thought.
“Not a bad idea, but I wouldn’t say no to a Monster Truck, or the new-”
“Ten dollars and we can make it.”
“You don’t have to make anything, I'm happy to buy you guys something cool. My allowance is more than generous and Hanukkah's over so I’m loaded with extravagant gifts from my parents.” Danny wasn’t sure exactly how Hanukkah was celebrated but from Sam’s clipped tone, he imagined she didn’t approve of the gifts.
“Tucker, you want the collector’s set for Dead Teacher? You got it.”
“Woohoo! You’re the best, Sam.”
“You’re welcome. So Danny, what do you want?”
That made him slow down.
Oh no.
“I didn’t make a list this year.”
The other two laugh.
“You were getting on me for not having a list and you don’t have one either?”
“I… I dunno. I’ve been so preoccupied with ghosts this year I haven’t thought about it.”
Everyone slows their walk down the streets of the town they’d vowed to protect. Ghost hunting had been something that infected all of their lives. Tucker offers a tight smile.
“Well.. what’s something that you could use?”
“I don’t know.” his shoulders slouch. “It feels like all I do is fight ghosts and do homework and sleep.”
“I dunno about that. You haven’t been doing your homework.” Sam points out helpfully.
“Haha…”
“And you hardly ever sleep.” Tucker quips.
“Hilarious.”
They stop a hundred feet away from Fenton Works and Danny sighs. The levity he had before is gone, sucked into the air and dissipated.
Danny had been running himself ragged lately. Now more than ever they could see the dark circles under his eyes, the way he carried himself changed depending on how bad the fights were. Even though Phantom won just about all of his fights, they always seemed to take a lot out of him. Sam and Tucker barely had to come and help anymore as the ghost boy seemed to have everything under control. He was good, but not good enough to pretend it didn’t cost him.
They walk slow and steady toward the house and with the shorter distance came the sound of short tempers.
Screaming was common in the Fenton house every December as if it were the choir of every Fenton Family Christmas. Something crashes in the living room of Danny’s house and the boy doesn’t even flinch.
“You sure there’s nothing on your mind?” Sam offers. If Danny wanted to talk then maybe-
“I’ll figure it out. I’ll see you guys later.”
Tucker and Sam look on as Danny doesn’t even wait for them to reply and instead bounds up the steps to his house and shuts the door.
The goth and the techno geek are left in the silence.
In that silence, they create a pact.
Danny didn’t have to worry about a thing this year. The great thing about being a sidekick was that they sometimes knew the hero better than he knew himself. Danny may have not written a list, may not have thought of himself for who knows how long, but that’s what friends were for.
Sam and Tucker were in charge of Danny Fenton’s Wish List.
They dash off to Tucker’s house where they start immediately writing down everything they could think of to make the hero’s life easier.
When they finish, they smile.
The next 12 days would lead up to the best Christmas yet.
The smell of the Manson’s kitchen wafted through the open window despite the December chill. Though the location might change over the years, from her childhood home with her own grandmother, to her cozy first home with her late husband, to the lavish mansion she lived in with her family now, Ida Manson was always in the kitchen in December more often than not.
Hanukkah was at an end, but Amity Park celebrated Christmas and she could never resist baking things for her family and friends no matter what they practiced.
For the third time in two weeks, babka was baking in the oven. One was cinnamon, warm and spiced like her grandmother had taught her to make all those years ago. The second one was chocolate, rich and swirled for her granddaughter’s sweet tooth. Of course two babka could hardly curb that appetite.
Christmas marketing was mainstream and every time she went to the grocery store, it was impossible not to notice the displays covered in ingredients and blown up photos of their featured recipes. Even the kosher section had an end-cap featuring reindeer cookies.
Ida wasn’t immune to charm and she did love peppermint anyway...
As a result of the combined obligation to fill her granddaughter with sugar and the temptations filling the aisles, Ida was busy.
Donuts were rolled out and shaped all over one of the marble counters waiting to go in the oil currently heating on the stove in a good heavy pot instead of the new-fangled digital deep fryers they had two of for some reason. Once those were cooked and cooled they would get stuffed full of custard and rolled in chocolate curls or iced and dotted with crushed candy canes.
Ida had just pulled out the peppermint brownies that would be slathered in cream cheese frosting and more of those little white and red specks of holiday cheer.
Lastly, one of her favorite things, the mighty slabs of chocolate bark that took up the entire kitchen island were ready to break. Parchment paper lined almost the entire 80x40 inch marble surface and was generously coated in dark chocolate. She had planned ahead, then deviated from the plan, and the four quadrants of barely separated chocolate "rectangles" were studded with fixings. They were embedded with candied orange peel (homemade of course), finely chopped dried fruit, roasted nuts, pretzels, precarious drizzles of white chocolate, and of course, a generous section was covered in peppermint candy.
The smell of everything mingled in the air and poured onto the street all day. People slowed and hummed pleasantly as they walked down the sidewalk all bundled up now warmed from the inside. If the scent didn’t make them stop, this next part might.
With a heft and a mighty cry, Ida Manson lifted one of the large chocolate slabs and slammed it onto the counter where it shattered.
CRACK
The sound was deafening and sudden, but then it was over. She smiled at the varying sizes of chocolate bark then reached out to take another slab in her hands.
“Hello!? Is everything- oh.”
Ida looked up and there, sticking his head through the window of her massive kitchen, was the ghost boy of Amity Park. His name was Danny.
“Ah, you could smell it couldn’t ya?” she grinned at him waving the second slab in the air.
He floated in more and more until only his foot was sticking out into the December air and he didn’t even seem to notice.
“I actually-”
CRACK
Ida slammed the second piece of chocolate down and bits of decadence went flying.
“I was coming to investigate but now I know that noise wasn’t a noise , but a wonderful sound .” he blinked at her then put a gloved hand on the back of his neck nervously before starting to babble.
“What I meant to say was like… Ya know, a sound is good while a noise is bad or potentially dangerous and the connotations are different so like if the noise was someone getting hurt that was bad but you were just making chocolate and.. chocolate is… is good.” A little pink tinted his cheek as he started to float away.
He looked tired. His hair was a bit unruly, his shoulders were tense, this boy looked sad.
His butt was just about out the window when Ida brushed her hands on her stained apron.
“You’re right about that. Now why don’t you come down here and have some, deary?”
Green eyes blinked at her owlishly. Obviously he wasn’t used to being offered anything even though he was just a kid caught in the cold.
“I-I really can’t, I-”
“Pish posh. Now come choose a piece, I’ve got plenty.”
“I don’t eat. I’m a ghost.” she could have believed him if it weren’t for his voice or his face or the way his hands moved.
“You’ve got a mouth, don't ya?”
Danny seemed stunned for a second then came inside seemingly dragging some of the outside with him. It grew colder as he very slowly flew down to her level instead of flying above her. Perhaps it was a sign of respect, perhaps for just a moment he was forgetting he was supposed to have all these superpowers.
“Thank you.” he said politely and Ida beamed as she gestured at the broken pieces. Some of the shards were no bigger than a nickel while others mirrored her handbag. It was to be expected, but it was fun to look at all the different bits.
Danny reached forward and picked up the tiniest piece that had a tiny speck of peanut dust on it and she slapped it out of his hand.
He drew his hand to his chest in surprise, betrayal just barely starting to color his expression when she pointed again.
“You pick a proper piece. Do you know how hard it is to work hard when you’re my age? This is art! You wouldn’t do that to a poor old lady now would you? Take a lackluster piece as if I had microwaved a Hershey bar and spilled it.” she shook her head and started pawing through the pieces on her side of the table.
He blinked at her processing the words then nodded. Obediently, he reached out and carefully selected a piece with a healthy amount of peppermint. He looked to her for approval and when Ida took a bite out of her own piece, he took an experimental bite.
Green eyes widened.
“This is delicious.”
“I know. Have some more.”
There were no arguments or attempts at being polite as the kid snapped off piece after piece with his teeth and ate the entire thing. The whole time he stole glances as if she would slap it out of his hand again remembering he was supposed to be a ghost or something. She smiled and he twitched his gloved fingers like he would lick them if she wasn’t watching.
“Um… thank you. I’ll let you-”
“Did you like it? Best you ever had, eh?” she did lick her fingers for crumbs.
Danny’s mouth twitched like he would smile before the expression fell and he answered honestly.
“I never had it before. My folks aren’t good cooks. And they especially don’t cook Christmas stuff.”
Ida smiled at him.
“Tell ‘em it’s not too late. It may say Christmas on the tin but it’s good stuff year round. Especially when you get to share.”
He nodded but she could tell he would not be passing the message along.
“Thanks again for the chocolate.”
“Of course. I’m glad you got to try it. Busy night?” Ida leaned on the counter resting her body against the stone.
“Not really. Pretty slow this time of year with the Truce and all.”
Ah, that would explain a lot.
“Good.” she slapped the table and the poor boy jumped in his seat in the air.
“Here. Help a helpless old woman break up her bark?” she pouted at him with an exaggerated lip. After a long moment, that finally got a little smile out of the boy.
“Yes ma’am.”
“None of that nonsense, Danny, you call me Grandma Ida.”
His face blanked with shock and his eyes, so expressive, grew large.
“I’m Phantom .” he said with his lying voice, face, and hands.
She grinned but innocently lilted her voice.
“Danny Phantom. That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”
Danny relaxed a bit and she turned back to the island.
“Now come on, we don’t have all night to do this part. That oil is gonna start screaming soon and I’ll show you how to fry donuts.”
“Yes Grandma Ida.” The boy said picking up a large piece.
“And lemme tell you, if you ever wanna make this, it isn’t actually art. This stuff is stupid easy to make. I’ll walk you through everything then you can make it any time you want.”
Danny smiled back.
“It probably wouldn’t be as good.”
“Darn tootin’ it wouldn’t be as good! But it’ll tide you over until you get your scrawny behind back here for more!”
That smile he gave was bright and wonderful.
“Yes Grandma Ida.”
“Good boy. Now slam that down and we’ll get to work.”
CRACK
-----ooo---OOO---ooo-----
Do not expect this length for the rest this one just spoke to me. Thanks Grandma Ida!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Title: Make A Wish
Summary: Sometimes getting in touch with a celebrity was part of her job. This was going to be the strangest one yet.
Word Count: 576
Characters: Danny Phantom, Original Characters
Warnings: it's a bit of light angst. vague mentions of death (because it's outsider POV talking to a ghost) and also mentions of childhood illness (implied terminal)
You can read below or on A03!
Am I almost late posting for the event I came up with and am running? noooo... shh it's fine
Phantom capped his ghost-catching thermos and took a breath.
This was her chance. It was now or never.
She ran out from her hiding spot and into the street.
He clipped the thermos to his belt and crouched as he prepared himself to fly away. Which was a bit odd because he was already four feet in the air.
"Phantom, wait!" She called out desperate to catch him before he was too high up to call.
He immediately turned to face her but did so by turning his entire body while also still being bunched up. The sudden movement caused his limbs to unbunched but it was so precarious it was kind of like tripping or the physical embodiment of 52 pick-up.
She did her best not to laugh.
He recovered as best as any awkward teenager would. "Yes. Hi, hello."
"Do you have a minute?" She asked.
"Oh sure," he said as he floated closer to the ground so they were eye level. "What's up?"
"Have you heard of the Make a Wish foundation?"
"Yeah, that's the thing that takes sick kids to Disney World, right?"
She smiled, "Essentially yes. Although it isn't always a trip to Disney that is wanted."
"Oh?" He tilted his head to the side with curiosity and his legs merged together into a tail that flickered side to side.
She did her best not to focus on that and continued the conversation.
"Sometimes a child wants to meet someone famous and spend the day with them."
"That's cool and all,” he hesitated before bluntly saying, “but why are you telling me?"
"Phantom, there's a boy at Amity General who wants to meet you."
"I'm famous?"
Did he really not know that? "Yes?"
"Well when you say it like that," he muttered to himself as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"Why don't you think you're famous?"
"I guess I thought I was more on the infamous side of things. What with all the shooting and yelling at me all the time."
He was clearly trying to downplay it but she'd worked with kids long enough to see right through it.
This kid needed some positive reinforcement.
"Well I think you're doing a great job, and so does Max."
Phantom's cheeks suddenly turned bright green as he looked away with a nervous smile.
It took her a second to realize that meant he was blushing.
"So Max is the one who wants to meet me?"
"Yeah, actually hold on," she reached into her pocket and pulled out an envelope, and held it out to the ghost boy. "This is for you."
He took the offered envelope and quietly opened it.
She could still feel the lingering chill on her fingertips even though they had only briefly touched.
He smiled as soon as he started reading the note, “Mr. Phantom? That’s a new one. I like it.” he shook his head slightly then went back to reading.
By the time he finished the note, his expression had shifted ever so slightly. He was still smiling, but it had more of a melancholic tone. A subtle sadness and a hint of understanding.
It took her by surprise at first, but then she remembered Phantom was a ghost. That he was young.
Maybe he had a wish once.
Maybe he went to Disney World.
It only took a simple question to break her out of her musings.
Today we have an STL AU one-shot (it's complete!) about what would have happened if Mary-Alice had left with the Major.
I'm so sorry that I haven't been able to post many of the requests, but December was a bit of a disaster and I fell way behind. I plan on finding something from every one of those requests in January to make it up to everyone <3
Onwards to FicMasEve ;)
And I never wanted anything from you,
Except everything you had, and what was left after that too.
Florence and the Machine, Dog Days Are Over.
—
How long have they been away from the South? From Maria and the wars?
She’s lost track entirely.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She never saw any of it coming.
She watched carefully, she planned and practiced, watched and worried, and she still never saw it coming. Not the Major taking her hand and dragging her out of Mexico and Texas in the dust of Charlotte and Peter’s flight. She never even considered that he’d think to take her with them.
So she does her best, her gaze focused on the future, focused on Maria and their desertion to make sure they see the end of the day, the end of the week, the end of the year. Her head feels tight, so full of what could-might-will happen that she’s glad that the Major doesn’t let go of her hand the entire time, just drags her along behind him.
And that’s how they escape the south.
—
They travel with Peter and Charlotte for many years, a little trio and the shadow. He watches her, the blankness of her face and her emotions as they move past the Mason-Dixon line to peace and safety.
She has no strong opinions about anything, never offers thoughts or ideas about their little trek across the country.
He doesn’t know how to help her. Not at all. He makes sure she’s fed, and that she’s decently clothed. He makes sure she’s not left behind, or alone too often (he knows something about the terror of being alone, and he doesn’t want anyone to feel that way.)
So they continue on. He waits, she watches, eyes empty but all-seeing. They part ways from Charlotte and Peter (there are a hundred little tiny reasons why, and Mary-Alice is one of them. She doesn’t feel safe, doesn’t trust Peter or Charlotte and he’d like to know why, but that’s not the kind of question he can ask her. Especially not now.) They wanted into the north, into wet and damp and green and empty, where the emotions of the cities are long behind them and he can finally breathe a little.
Mary-Alice doesn’t breathe, doesn’t relax or doesn’t seem any less broken. She simply is, still - a shadow, a ghost, his personal spectre of the horror of the wars.
This is not how he imagined freedom would be.
—
The little house had been half-swallowed up by the forest, one half of the building having collapsed under the weight of debris from the trees crowding it, and the smell of mould and rotting vegetation was overwhelming.
The rain had continued for two and a half days unabated, and whilst they ran no risk of getting sick or cold from it, but when it was raining this heavily and for this long, it was unpleasant - their clothes were sticking like a second skin, with rivulets of dirt and old blood running from the fabric onto their skin.
Wiping mud off her face with an equally filthy hand, she followed the Major towards the house; they were both covered in a combination of blood, mud, and ash from the fight. Mary-Alice’s dress was in a far worse state than the Major’s pants and shirt, but neither were particularly salvageable.
The house is a little time capsule of the past, having sat untouched for forty or fifty years, just resting and rotting. The dust that covers the floor is more of a sludge thanks to the dampness and the nearby river, with veins of mould and fungus running up the walls, and vivid green vines twisting and blooming up the door frames and around the ceiling. There might have been wallpaper once, but it’s little more than stained, rotten pulp right now.
(Two fat little frogs have nestled in a hole in the wall, luminous green and content. Mary-Alice watches them for a moment, fascinated. He likes that.)
They move through the house slowly; everything has been abandoned - it was not the home of wealthy people, but there is evidence of a few modest creature comforts - some books, discarded embroidery, painting supplies.
It feels like the other side of the Monterrey mansion; like they’ve stepped through the looking glass to another world. No one would argue that Maria’s home was cleaner - more bodies moving around to prevent dust settling - but the air of disrepair, of abandonment, of a liminal space is the same.
For a moment, he thinks he would prefer dirt and sand and the dry heat. But he’d take the rainiest days, the mouldiest shelter, before he’d go back to the hell of being a soldier in an unwinnable war.
—
The little washroom was covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, with lacy spiderwebs strung in the ceiling corners. The tub matches up with his hazy human memories, bringing the smell of castile soap, and the heat of the boiled water sloshing into the the tin tub to the front of his memory.
(It is bittersweet in its simplicity. That once upon a time, he was a boy who washed in a bath like this, with homemade soap and rough rags. That he was a person, a human, a brother and son. A child. Jasper. Those memories sting and feel heavy but at least he has them. There is something amusing but also dreadful at Mary-Alice’s fascination with something as simple as frogs, as folding paper into animals, at how stricken she is out in a brand-new world.)
They are absolutely filthy; it’s been weeks since they washed, in a river somewhere in Virginia. They’ve relied upon the rain, upon the remoteness of their path, but maybe a bath would help. Would make them feel better. Even back with Maria, getting the opportunity to wash, and to claim new clothes made things seem a little less grim.
If nothing else, they’ve both got blood in their hair they need to wash out.
(The first time he had her after their escape, was in the lake somewhere in South Carolina when they stopped to wash the dirt and sand from the south off them. It was rough and hard, because he felt stripped raw, and she had held on to him tightly, her face pressed against him and it wasn’t exactly the cleansing baptism he had hoped for, he realised afterwards. Not for either of them. Maybe this bath will be better.)
—
There’s an old bucket in the corner, rusted tin housing a fascinating colony of something unidentifiable that he takes down to the river when Mary-Alice is exploring the narrow second floor.
It takes a few trips to the river to fill the tub enough for the both of them, and by then, Mary-Alice has crept back downstairs to watch his progress with obvious curiosity.
(A piece of ragged ribbon is clutched in one of her hands, and he wonders why she would want such a thing.)
“Wash yourself,” he says gently, motioning to the bath. The water is off-colour, but it is river water, from an ancient bucket, and it is still cleaner than the two of them.
Mary-Alice nods and strips out of her rag of a dress; there was something utterly pathetic in the wet slap it made when she dropped it on the stone floor amongst the dust and dirt. She’d drag it back on when she was finished in the tub, he knew that - but it looked like nothing. Black and brown and red, the fabric worn thin and frayed. It was barely fit for bandages or as a cleaning rag, let alone as someone’s clothing.
She picks up the dress and rings it out - bloody-muddy water dribbled out of it. And she folds it over the half-broken chair in the corner, as if it is going to be dry or cleaner when she reaches for it again.
The whole thing just feels sad to him. But then, he knows how wrong this is; he vaguely remembers what it was like to have new, clean clothes as a human. Even as a vampire, he got to replace his garments more often than Mary-Alice ever did - so few of their victims were small enough for their clothing to fit her.
He couldn’t remember ever seeing Mary-Alice in clothing that fit her right. Not the ragged hospital gown he found her in, nor any of the dresses she was provided with afterwards. Always swallowing her up, leaving her shoulder bare.
That’s why she had so many scars there, overlapping indiscriminately. It had been like a beacon to others, a vulnerability. Because her clothes never fit right.
(He thinks of homemade sweaters, of crisp afternoon dresses, of pristine petticoats and neat lace. He thinks of rancid dresses and torn hospital gowns and thin, pale limbs unguarded.)
—
It’s been awhile since he saw her bare like this, as she steps towards the tub. (Normally when he does, he doesn’t see her back.)
His fingers have grazed over the narrow plane of her back, but he’s never really just looked at it. At the scars dotting her shoulders and arms, at the long scar that runs from her shoulder blades to her hip raggedly. He wonders how it happened, how old it is.
(Not that old. He knows the small scars under his fingers as well as his own; in comparison, her skin dips into it… how burns on his tongue but he says nothing.)
She turns to him, her head tilted in curiosity some, and she just… stands there. Thin and pale and scarred and completely naked without shame or thought. And that tastes like regret, that she’s been raised up like this, that she doesn’t expect privacy, doesn’t bother with modesty, because she never had a reason to. The Wars take their pound of flesh, and left this girl without the idea that she should-could cover herself. Could turn away, refuse, say no.
Her lack of modesty is something that shames him more than it shames her. It is not enduring, not an ideal. Just another red mark against him.
He turns away and she finally climbs into the bath, a cloud of filth spreading out from her as weeks of dirt and grime and dried blood peel away from her skin. She sits in one end, still watching him as he moves around the little wash room, tugging open cupboard doors and watching the rotten, water-logged door crumple in his hand. Vermin and insects have eaten away at any linens left behind, and water and time finished the job.
They don’t speak as he slips from the room, leaving her in the cold water, waiting for… whatever it is that she’s always waiting for.
—
She sinks into the water when the Major leaves her to wash, and scrubs at her arm with her hand, eyeing the cake of forgotten soap in its dirty little dish. The soap has been left behind and broken down into some mould-riddled pulp that looks almost organic in its curdled decay - it fascinates her, honestly. It’s so innocent, yet so repulsive, a mundane little reminder that nothing last forever. At least, nothing should.
(It’s easy to focus on little things, like rotten soap or the blood dried pink in the Major’s hair, than bigger things. Like her visions. Like the fact that this was never supposed to be their fate. That she hasn’t seen anything in weeks, since they fled. She has no idea what will become of them, truly, and it is ice-cold, hard knowledge that she cannot outrun, that she will not acknowledge.)
Stretching out in the tub, she smiles at the idle thought the she cannot even reach the other end with her toes - unless she submerges herself and stretches right out. Maybe then.
She has to wash her hair, pick out tiny leaves and sticks and crumbs of dirt and matted blood. Will have to wash out her dress, too; it was gingham once. Now it’s just brown. Brown like mud, brown like the bathwater, brown like the dried rivulets of old blood running down her neck. If she ever gets to choose, she thinks she’d like a blue dress. A blue dress with a yellow ribbon around the waist.
(Why can’t she see?)
—
He prowls through the rooms of the house that are still accessible, peeling off things that might be useful - he finds an old wooden comb; a mouldy bedsheet that he rips in half to salvage; and a long-sleeved dress, decades out of style, but perhaps small enough to suit Mary-Alice. It was grey once, and now has water marks and ragged moth holes, but it’s far and away better than what she was wearing.
(He finds himself a cleaner shirt, a little mouldy but certainly wearable. His pants will last until their next hunt - Mary-Alice is a quick study in which human’s clothing will fit him. She might even be convinced into stealing some clothing from a forgotten washing line, so that she finally has something that covers her properly, something that doesn’t leave her vulnerable and exposed.)
Back in the washroom, Mary-Alice looks somewhat cleaner, but not entirely. She straightens up in the bath as he walks back in, curiosity in her eyes at the items that he’s carrying. She always liked getting new clothes back in the South, always inspected each dress she was issued, as if she had to make a choice and didn’t just have to settle for the closest fit, for whatever colour and fabric and style was in the mixed-up pile.
(She always did a little twirl when she tried them on, a little spin as she looked down at her new prize. It was… endearing. Sweet. Hopeful. He didn’t know if she realised that she did it, or that he noticed. He never said anything, but he was always sorry when she came back from a battle with a new tear or stain - she always appreciated her clothes so damn much.)
He nods at her, and she rests her chin on the edge of the tub, her gaze following him as he walked around the room.
The new dress and shirt are folded carefully on top of the bedsheet, so damn obvious in their surroundings like offerings to a pagan god.
(Perhaps prayers for a rebirth, for a revolution and a revelation. New clothes for a new age.
He’s already getting sentimental over a few lengths of moth-eaten fabric.)
When he turns back around, she’s still watching him with that vacant, but half-starved look, grime still streaked on her face.
“Has it helped?” he asks, sitting down by the tub. They are nearly face-to-face this way, neither looking up nor down. Her eyes are darkening, to a deep rose-red. They still have another few days, maybe a week, before they have to hunt again.
“Has what helped?” she asks, confused.
“The bath.” He looks at the stone floor, at the little veins of dirt running through it. “I thought it might help.”
She shifts in the tub, so he can only see the top of her nose and her eyes above the rim, shadows rippling over her face.
“Help?”
He swallows and looks at her. Really looks at her. At the dark circles under her eyes that seem deeper because of the fear. At the way she shrinks back but never breaks her gaze.
(A slim hand gripping his shirt sleeve when the nomads approached them, tucking herself behind him. That had surprised him; he’d never seen Mary-Alice back away from a threat before.)
“I know…” he begins, and he wants to reach out and hold her. But they aren’t there, they don’t casually touch in that way. This was his choice, and he dragged her along for it with little consideration for her, just laser focus on getting them both away.
“I know you didn’t see this coming…” he tries again and he doesn’t finish that sentence before Mary-Alice shudders and folds in on herself, burying her face in her hands.
And crying.
—
He reaches for her, instinctually; her tiny frame shaking as she tries to contain whatever she’s feeling.
(She cries like a little child; little wobbly sobs into her hands with shiny red eyes that will never produce tears but secrete venom down her face, more viscous than the venom from their mouth. It burns white stains on clothing, their faux tears do. Venom from their mouths and limbs eats through most fabrics and papers quickly. But that’s not why he wants to mop up her face and hold her tight.
He wants to because she’s scared and worried and feels like she’s alone. And he never, ever wants anyone else to feel that way, not when he can make a difference.)
The water sloshes in the tub as he climbs in, fully clothed. If the water was cloudy when it was first tipped into the tub, now it’s completely opaque - they would get a better wash, in cleaner water, if they just waded out into the rain-swollen river. She looks up at him with a breath that almost sounds like a gasp, as he sinks into the water, and pulls her into his arms.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, her thin arms wrapping around his neck, and she pushes her face against the rough, reeking fabric of his shirt and maybe there’s a corner of his mind that is a little embarrassed at the state of him when she’s this close, but she’s naked and looking so very broken that she takes priority, not some half-forgotten lessons on gentlemanly behaviour in the back of his head. It’s not like he’s ever been a particular gentleman to her before.
“I can’t see,” she says, and she shudders with misery and sobs. “I can’t see anything, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”
Gently rocking her, he ran his hands through her hair, freeing a few small tangles and some debris gently.
“It’s alright,” he says again, because he really is lost at what to say to fix this. To apologise and soothe and heal and repent.
“No. It’s not,” she leans back, and he’s enchanted by her. By her mussed hair, and her big red eyes, and the sheen of venom clinging to the fan of her eyelashes. She really is truly lovely - he thought that the day he found her, with a wide smile and emotions that leapt out at him in their strength and purity. He could have led her anywhere, and she wouldn’t have questioned him. Or rather, she would have, but in excitement and trust. Not in fear or suspicion.
(He aches to go back and make it right. He’s watched her since they left; the blank, cold way she has moved around. Just utterly dull and uncomfortable. Peter had voiced the suspicion that it was him and Charlotte that had been making her so unhappy, that perhaps she hadn’t wanted to leave but had needed to follow the Major’s orders above all else. But even now, weeks after leaving Peter and Charlotte in New York, she was still so miserable, a shadow of all that she had been before - gone was that happy girl he found abandoned in Mississippi; as was the solemn but confident little shadow of the Wars. She was like a marionette with the strings cut away, like an abused animal limping into freedom reluctantly, scared of another set of tests and traumas.
And all of that is his fault.)
“It is. None of us know what’s going to happen next. That’s how it is,” he tries but she scowls.
“We never would have gotten this far if I hadn’t seen,” she murmurs, ducking her head. “I need… it protects all of us.”
It takes him a minute to comprehend what she’s saying - the scope and scale of her gift; of her efforts to protect and guide and manipulate. Of the fact that she was never just looking after herself; that she had stretched and warped herself into the shield that protected him and his.
(‘All of us’ is not just them. It is him, and her, and Peter and Charlotte. And he’s seen the way she and Peter stare at each other, at the way Charlotte inches away from Mary-Alice with varying degrees of subtlety. The only reason for her to have guarded them is because they were his friends. His people. And that is a layer of devotion, of kindness, and of power that he’s not sure how to compute, how to articulate.)
“…You did that for us?” he finally manages, pushing a soggy lock of hair out of her eyes, ignoring the rust-coloured stain it leaves on his fingers. They’ve both been hunting a little more viciously in this part of the country, where easy prey is harder to come by. Bloody hair is hardly their biggest problem.
She blinks and frowns. “Of course. We were meant to…” And she trails off, and for once, he feels something from her. Sadness, disappointment, and grief all tangled up. Something that was lost, then; something that couldn’t be retrieved.
His hand slips to cradle her cheek and he has a million things to say and he doesn’t know what to say first.
(I’m sorry, let me protect you, let me fix this, let me fix you. Let me stay with you, let me touch you, let me make you smile again.)
“How does it work?” he asked. “Your gift?” She’s leaning into his touch and he wonders if she notices. He wonders if it’s just wishful thinking on his part.
“Decisions. The outcomes of choices. Things can change,” she says quietly, “but I’d see that as well.”
(She smells like flowers and salt, even now.)
“Does that mean you haven’t made a choice yet?” he asked, his thumb stroking her cheek.
Mary-Alice shrugged. “I don’t know what choice to make,” she said.
It’s such a simple answer, such an easy problem, and he marvels at it for a moment. The idea that she’s been guided by her visions for so long - a hand pulling her along in the dark - that she can’t bring herself to move forward on an unknown path… it indicates so much power, so much discipline, and such a burden. That, to her, any wrong step on the tight-rope could ruin everything.
“What about a small decision?” he asked, and watched as her hands fell to his shirt, to the few buttons that still clung onto the fabric. “What’s something that you want?”
He can see the thoughts turn over in her head, watches her bite her lip and she looks at him like she can see right through him, see every thought and dream and regret he’s ever had before she breaks her gaze and looks back down at his chest.
“I want…” she begins, and another hint of emotion brushes by him, half gone before he can identify it - embarrassment.
“What do you want?” he asks again, covering her hands with his and she looks at him again with a desperate, starving look.
“I want us to stay together.” Her voice is soft and sad but hopeful. “Please.”
(He wasn’t expecting that.
Not at all.)
“I want that too,” he manages hoarsely.
And she looks at him, her face a portrait of unfiltered surprise. He doesn’t ever want to lose her, to let her go. To let her down. He wants… he wants to find her somewhere safe and peaceful, where her dresses fit properly and she smiles. He’s spent so many years using her as a crutch, as a way to keep himself functioning and alive, with no knowledge that she was already protecting him the very best she could, that he wants to repay her, desperately.
“Okay.” She nods and curls against his shoulder, threading the buttons through each buttonhole of his shirt. Pushing the sides of his shirt aside until he sits up long enough to peel it off and fling it onto the floor, she lies half-sprawled across him, occasionally wiping dirt and blood off him.
(For a moment, he feels her - skin to skin, in the dirty bathwater. They are fragile, her emotions, ephemeral and easily missed. But it is more that he ever felt from her before - little flutters of hope and reassurance, relief and a deep well of devotion; devotion to him.)
They sit there, tangled up in each other, for awhile - until she goes rigid for a few moments and then blinks up at him.
“We’ll be together,” she says, shifting against him, and he wishes they could sleep, just so they could do so curled in each other’s arms. “I can see that.”
He doesn’t know why (or won’t admit it) but he presses his lips to her forehead; despite the amount of times they’ve been together (on his terms, always), this gesture is strangely intimate, oddly binding.
They’ll be together.
That’s a future that will never change.
—
He finally strips off and they sink into the dirty water entangled, sponging off dirt with the use of his shirt, when he insists he found a cleaner one. She drags the comb through his curls so gently; her fingers teasing out each piece of debris, each snarl and knot. He attempts to salvage some of the soap for their hair, but it is a disgusting and futile endeavour.
(And maybe it’s worth it because she almost laughs; the mirth bubbling faintly as they both eye the mess.)
He wants to ask her questions about what she has seen, what was lost, and what comes next. But he doesn’t want to, not yet. There’s something more tangible between them now; soft and almost new, unlike what they’ve had in the past. He already likes this little bubble they’ve found themselves in - the way she wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him like she’s going to be torn away from him. The way she presses her face against his neck, he can feel her inhaling, nuzzling closer. He loves that already, that she wants to get closer, that despite everything, she’s so open about taking her comforts from him.
(He wants to press kisses to her cheeks, and cradle her in his arms properly. He wants to watch her spin in new dresses and memorise every mark and every scar on her skin. He wants this peace, this conviction that they’ve both finally found each other in the right place at the right time - a new certainty that has settled into him out of nowhere - to stay forever.)
Her lips quirk against his skin, and he thinks she might have smiled, and he tightens his arms around her.
(The next kiss he gives her will be one she asks for. He promises himself that.)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It's the holiday season and Harry finds an unusual invitation to a holiday party unlike any other. A reluctant Draco agrees to attend, but when Harry has quite the reaction to Veela blood wine at the party, things begin to spiral out of control, resulting in a night of debauchery for the two.
a/n: this was an (unofficial) request from @gigistylestomlinson...also, timeline wise, this occurs after black widow and before infinity war (like 2017). happy holidays everyone and enjoy :)
warnings: a tad bit of angst regarding yelena's family, but otherwise, none :)
requests are open!
malysh - baby
You and Yelena were excited for the holidays this year for a multitude of reasons. First, it was the first Christmas you two would be spending together. Second, you both loved the holidays. And third, you were going to spend Christmas morning with Yelena's family. Yelena wasn't as excited as you were for that third reason though.
Sure, she loved her family so much, but as you knew, there was a long, complicated, and, most of all, painful history between them. You didn't know every little intimate detail of the family's history, especially not of how Alexei betrayed Nat and Yelena when they were little, but you knew enough to understand Yelena's hesitation.
You two got up at the very crack of dawn on Christmas Eve, went to the airport for a flight at noon, and sat on a plane for 17 hours. Travelling actually took longer than that since you spent about 30 minutes in a taxi to the airport, then had a 4-hour layover in Istanbul. That totalled to two and a half hours shy of a full day of travel (21 hours and 30 minutes).
When you pulled up to the little homestead in St. Petersburg, you saw a flash of something on Yelena's face. Maybe it was nervousness or fright or something else. It went away quickly as she saw Melina scolding Alexei outside the pigpen, presumably about something he did (or didn't do) regarding the hogs.
Excitedly, you jumped out of the car, leaving Yelena no other choice but to follow suit. At first, she didn't want to be there, but as soon as her boots hit the ground, she was so happy.
You watched as she ran to her mother and father, practically attacking them with a hug. You noticed the slightest hesitation from her mother, but it slipped away as soon as it had come.
As you watched the three Russians hug happily, you didn't even notice a fourth, a redheaded one who you knew to be Natasha, run out of the house.
After a moment, the family broke away from their hug and small conversation that you couldn't really hear. It was Alexei who noticed you first.
"Who is that?"
"Mama. Papa. This is...well, this is my partner."
You noticed Natasha's little smirk. She had already known since Yelena had called and told her ahead of time so the surprise wouldn't be as big.
"Little one! You're too young to be married," Alexei exclaimed gently grabbing Yelena's face in such a way that her lips and cheeks pushed out.
"Firsht of all," she said, her words slurring together slightly because of how he was holding her face, "I am 28 yearsh old. Schecond, we are not married. And third, get off of me." She swatted the man's hands away from her face aggressively as she said so.
"Yelena, why didn't you tell us," her mother asked, her dark eyes darting between you and her daughter.
"Because," she started before a pause. She honestly didn't really know why she didn't tell her family about you. "I-I don't know."
The family spoke in Russian for a few minutes, leaving you unaware of what they were saying. All good things you hoped, but you couldn't be sure.
Soon after, you and Yelena were ushered into the house by her excited family and sat down before a tree. Taking a closer look, you saw little ornaments that had pictures of Yelena and Natasha when they were younger, around 6 and 11 respectively. You didn't know this, but they were copies of the pictures from that old picture book Melina had saved.
You looked at the steady collection of ornaments that hung on the tree. Many seemed to be older, likely 20 years or so. Quite a few of them had little drawings that appeared to be in crayon with a name, mainly Yelena, written somewhere on it. One was a group of people, a tall dark-haired man, a dark-haired woman, and two young girls–one with blue hair and the other blonde. It took a moment to realize that it was a drawing of their family by a very young Yelena.
You were taken away from the ornaments and brought back to reality when Alexei began to give out the gifts he bought or made everyone. His gifts were followed by Melina's, then Natasha's, and finally Yelena's. You were the only one without gifts. Well, that's what you thought.
Yelena presented you with a squat box. It clearly had some kind of jewelery in it, likely a necklace or bracelet. You opened it carefully, expecting some kind of fragile and expensively jeweled necklace. You could not be more wrong.
Instead, you found a simple beaded bracelet with lettered beads. It looked like a friendship bracelet that little kids would make. Not that you minded, of course. You loved the thought behind it. Looking closer, the white beads said "I LOVE YOU" in blocky black letters and they were surrounded by beads of your favorite colors.
It was such a simple, yet meaningful gift. You put it on and immediately wrapped your arms around Yelena tightly. "I love it so much...thank you."
"Of course, malysh. I'm glad you like it."
And so, your present unwrapping in Yelena's family home ended in a tight, loving hug. If Yelena was asked about it, she would've said that you were the real gift.
