#lps-writes

[littleperilstories]

so i heard you like angst

A wicked, miserable salvation was this—lonely and half-lived, cold and colourless, agonizing in every stuttering breath.

[littleperilstories]

From Chapter 10, "Did You Really Think You Could Take the Easy Way Out?" (coming soon)

He is foolish. Impulsive. Proud. Hot-headed. (Chapter 2)

...all of us know what Will can be like. Impulsive, thoughtless, wild. (Chapter 7)

Colette’s cautious. Smart. Vigilant. Sensible. I don’t think Jamie’d say that about me. (Chapter 8)

Read on Tumblr.

Read on Ao3.

[littleperilstories]

The Prince of Thieves: When the Snow Falls

Warnings: HA nothing scary today. SO THERE. Like the F&F Christmas episode story, I also wrote this one pretty fast, and since I wanted to post it TODAY (it's still Christmas in my time zone...barely), it didn’t get much editing. Beware of typos and bad sentences; feel free to let me know if you find any. 😂 Enjoy!

OH! And just for funzies, this Christmas special is written in third-person, past-tense! Surprise!

TPOT Masterlist

Word count: 1348 || Approx reading time: 5 mins

Teaser: Jamie nodded, making his father laugh, and from the other side of the room, there was a soft sigh and sleepy moan. Cringing, Jamie glanced back at his brother to see if he’d woken up at the sound of laughter. Luckily, he still seemed fast asleep.

All the neighbourhood children, thought Jamie Wardrew, were going to collectively lose their heads when they woke up. Everything, from the streets to the trees to the rooftops, was covered in pristine white snow. Fat flakes were drifting through the watery light of sunrise, painting lazy arcs in the air as they blanketed the world in white. Jamie stood next to his dad by the window and echoed the peaceful, contented sigh that fogged the old, warped glass windowpane of the family’s rented townhouse.

“Better appreciate the quiet now, son.” Dad rested his brown, calloused hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “Once the little ones wake up, this entire street will be in utter chaos.”

Jamie rubbed his eyes and glanced at the dimly lit room behind them. Ma was already at the fire, warming cider made from autumn’s plump red apples. The steaming spiced cider was for their dad, to drink and to warm his hands with before he departed for work. The “little one” of their family was still sprawled on the cot he shared with his brother, half out of his rumpled bed sheets with his limbs splayed in all directions. His freckled face was uncharacteristically tranquil, eyes partially veiled by too-long auburn hair.

When Will awoke and saw how much snow had fallen overnight—the first big snow after several weeks of gloomy, icy rain—he was likely to shatter something with the force of his pure, unrestrained excitement.

“Can I come with you to work?” Jamie mumbled, thinking ahead to the shrieks that would be echoing off the houses and cobblestone streets for the rest of the day. In the warmer seasons, his dad travelled with a large company of labourers, building the railroad, but once winter blasted in with its frigid winds and mountains of snow, he went to work for an old friend who was a foreman in a factory on the outskirts of town.

When Dad looked down at him, a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’d rather shovel coal into a furnace all day than play in the snow or help prepare dinner?”

Jamie nodded, making his father laugh, and from the other side of the room, there was a soft sigh and sleepy moan. Cringing, Jamie glanced back at his brother to see if he’d woken up at the sound of laughter. Luckily, he still seemed fast asleep.

“I’ll do a good job,” Jamie promised, turning back to his dad. “I’m pretty strong. And I can work fast.”

With another chuckle, his dad pressed into the scrawny muscle of his upper arm. “You sure about that?” He shot his hand up to tickle the soft spot of his underarm. “You absolutely sure?”

“Dad!” Jamie bit back a fit of giggles and pulled away, still hesitant to rouse Will.

“Jamie,” said Dad in a matching tone, shaking his dark curls. “The factory’s no place for a boy your age. Stay here and have some fun.”

Imagining again the pandemonium the day would bring—screaming voices and flying snowballs and rolling, rollicking bodies and hats and scarves getting lost in the chaos—Jamie shuddered.

“If you’re not interested in fun,” Dad teased, “then stay in and help Ma with the cooking.”

Neither of Jamie’s two options were particularly desirable, but one involved louder screaming and more rough-and-tumble scuffles in the snow than the other. “All right.”

“But maybe keep an eye on him once he goes out,” Dad said, jerking his head toward Will. “Or he’ll get into some kind of mess.”

As if he’d heard and understood somehow that Dad was talking about him, Will bolted upright in bed, sending the pillow careening to the floor. “Go out where?” Even with a drowsy look on his face as he rubbed his eyes, his voice rang through the air, loud as church bells.

“Shh,” Dad said, beckoning him over. “Come look outside.”

Will scrambled off the cot and tried to dash across the room to the window, but one foot was tangled in the blanket. His limbs flailed wildly as he tried unsuccessfully to catch his balance before he tumbled over into a heap on the floor.

“Oh, Will,” said Ma, shaking her head and taking a step back as she took the pot of cider from the fire. “Be careful.”

Will cackled as he freed himself from the woollen blanket. “Oops.”

Laughing despite himself, Jamie crossed the room to help his brother to his feet. “Slow down, won’t you?”

“No, you slow down.” Will tore away and leapt into Dad’s arms. “What are we—” His words halted as he gazed through the glass and glimpsed the glistening world outside. “Ohhhh.”

As much as Jamie tried to amass his irritation, he found only the tattered dregs of it. His brother was annoying, but his awe was admittedly adorable. Will’s hazel eyes, perfect twins to Dad’s, were wide as saucers as he took in the snowy scene. “It snowed for Christmas?”

“Wasn’t that nice of me and Ma to arrange that for you?” Dad asked, gently setting his younger son back on the floor. “Will you go out and play in the snow today?”

“YES!”

The shrill affirmation pierced the air, a crack of winter thunder splitting the morning’s peace. Dad winced, and Ma spilled some of the apple cider at the sound.

“Will,” Jamie said with a sigh, “shut up. It’s only sunrise. Some folks are still sleeping.”

“I gotta tell everyone about the snow!”

Crossing the room, her mismatched stockings padding on the rough-hewn floorboards, Ma pressed the steaming cider into Dad’s grateful hands. She knelt down next to her youngest son, grasping his fluttering fingers in hers. “Will. Can you listen for a moment?”

When Will kept bouncing, seeming not to hear their mother’s question, Jamie picked up one of his brother’s abandoned socks from the floor, crushed it into a ball, and hurled it at his head.

Dad nearly spit out his cider. “James!”

Jamie shrugged. It had done the trick: Will was glaring at him, but he’d stopped fidgeting long enough to listen to Ma.

“I don’t mind if you want to go out and play in the snow today,” she said gently. “It really is beautiful outside, isn’t it? A perfect gift from Mother Nature  for Christmas.”

“I know! It’s amazing!” Will began to bounce on the balls of his feet again, and Jamie scanned the floor for another sock, but Ma managed to keep his little brother’s attention with a few soft taps on his arm.

“Dad’s got to go to work.” She brushed his moppy hair from his eyes. “So he can’t go out and play with you. Jamie can, but I might need his help around here sometimes.”

Quick as lightning, she winked at Jamie as if to say, You don’t need to spend the entire day dodging snowballs.

“And if that’s the case…” She cupped his rosy cheek in her palm. “You must promise to be very careful while you’re playing with the other children. Can you promise me that, Will?”

Dad downed the rest of his cider. “Remember, William. Once you make a promise, you’re honour-bound to keep it. Right? That’s part of being a grown-up boy.”

Jamie rolled his eyes, but fortunately, neither of his parents noticed.

“Will you promise to be very safe and very kind to the other children while you’re playing in the snow today, Will?” Ma shifted her hand to comb through his sleep-mussed locks with her fingers.

A long silence met her question, hanging between mother and son before Will said with great solemnity, “Yes.”

At the graveness of his son’s tone, Dad muffled a snort of laughter and pressed his teeth into his knuckles.

“That’s my boy,” said Ma, pulling him into a hug. “Can I ask one more thing?”

Still looking serious, Will nodded.

“What d’you think about  having breakfast first, before you go play?”

Will’s face broke into a wide, toothy grin. Jamie found himself smiling right along. He knew what his little brother was about to say.

“YES!”

Tagging: @gala1981 - if you’re not into Christmas you can totally skip this! (Sorry again starlit! I’ll remember next time. I was wayyyy too excited to post this on actual Christmas.)

[littleperilstories]

Fen & Freddie: Wherever You Find Love, It Feels Like Christmas

Warnings: a few references to the events of Whumptober's Fen & Freddie, like Fredde's hand getting impaled and Fen being kidnapped and tortured; difficult parental relationship; lying about going to therapy; implied ptsd; weird government shenanigans/getting a tracking implant. honestly it's not really whumpy unless you count Bridget angsting all over the place.

Less serious warning: I wrote this pretty fast and didn't do a whole lot of editing. I've no doubt there are typos and bad sentences. 😂 Enjoy!

Fen & Freddie Masterlist

Word count: 3543 || Approx reading time: 14 mins

Teaser: Bridget hadn’t always hated the holiday season. No, this was a relatively recent phenomenon, born last year—an awful Christmas, the worst she’d ever had and would ever have, she was certain. The one that fell only a month and a half after Fen and her boyfriend got out of the hospital, still trying to recover from everything Kain Brockhurst had done to them.

Bridget pressed her face into the steering wheel, groaning into the metal logo in its centre. The metal letters dug into her forehead, cool and sharp.

Get me off this highway.

Of course she was here, of all places. Of course she was living out the second-worst of holiday clichés: being stuck in gridlocked traffic, crawling along a four-lane highway at a snail’s pace, with no relief or accessible off-ramps in sight.

The only thing she could see to be grateful for was that it wasn’t snowing.

Wailing in frustration as the radio blared the fourth rendition of “Winter Wonderland” she’d heard in her hour-and-a-half -and-still-counting drive, she turned the volume to its lowest level and felt around on the cluttered passenger seat for her phone. Using the device while driving was, of course, illegal, but the car barely counted as “in motion,” and if she had to listen to one more a capella, glee-club style cover of a Christmas song, she was going to purposely ram her car into the one in front of her.

Once her blissfully un-festive playlist was blasting through the speakers, Bridget heaved a sigh of relief.

She hadn’t always hated the holiday season. No, this was a relatively recent phenomenon, born last year—an awful Christmas, the worst she’d ever had and would ever have, she was certain. The one that fell only a month and a half after Fen and her boyfriend got out of the hospital, still trying to recover from everything Kain Brockhurst had done to them.

Fen, her gorgeous, sweet, kind-hearted, innocent sister.

Freddie, the adorable if dopey love-struck idiot who’d gone running after her and nearly died for his courage.

Bridget could only assume last Christmas had been more of a nightmare for them than it had been for her, but she couldn’t know for sure. How would she? Her mother had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t welcome in their house for the holiday. Or, in fact, any other day.

Bridget had been entirely prepared for another Christmas alone—no Fen, no Starr, no nothing—but this year, her sister had intervened.

You’re coming for dinner on the 25th, read a text that had lit up Bridget’s phone only a week ago. No ifs, ands, or buts. Bring cookies.

The message and its unspoken implication—I talked to Mom, and she said it’s okay for you to be here—had sent Bridget spiralling into sobs for a good half an hour. She’d been straight-up ugly crying: wailing sobs, face buried in a pillow, nose streaming in a slimy, hideous mess.

Now Bridget glanced at the stack of cookie boxes piled precariously on the back seat, emotions in check, at least for now. She’d meant to bake some treats from scratch, she really had. But that had been before the last-minute plans that had transpired in the days after Fen’s text. A secret encrypted message arrived in her email with a time and place,and she’d enjoyed a few days away from home with the friends who meant the most to her. Then, though, there had been the subsequent phone call from her federal agent, Donna, that resulted in a non-negotiable, unskippable appointment downtown. “I know it’s Christmas. And I don’t care. You missed a check-in, Bridget. You knew what the deal was, and you broke it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bridget’s gaze roamed from the baked goods to the fresh scar on her wrist, barely an inch long, and her stomach contracted.

Well, so what if Donna and the feds could always keep tabs on her, know where she was, for the rest of her life? They were already doing that, anyway. The little procedure yesterday had just made it more official.

But seeing Starr and Jeff for the first time in months had been worth it.

And being back at her parents’ house, seeing Fen smiling and happy and whole, that would be worth it, too. Worth the diabolical traffic, the trek across town—to multiple supermarkets—to buy cookies, the thirty-minute-plus waits in line.

And whatever frosty glare her mom threw at her from across the room, or whatever argument born of blame and bitterness she started over the dinner table—the number one winner for terrible Christmas clichés—seeing Fen smile would be worth that, too.

~~~

Darkness already blanketed the street when Bridget pulled into the driveway behind her mom’s grey SUV. She sucked in a breath as she stepped out, stretching her cramped muscles, and stole a glance toward the yellow glow seeping from behind the curtains. Was everyone already inside and waiting for her? What was the reaction going to be like once she walked through the door? Fen and her dad, she usually saw about once a month. Freddie, only in the pictures Fen posted online. Her mom…

The incision spot on her wrist twinged in protest as she rubbed it nervously. What was she afraid of? What was the worst her mom could do to her? If anyone hurled a turkey leg or a gravy boat at her, what did it matter? One, she’d heal the bump or burn away in no time. Two, she deserved it.

Balancing the mountain of cookie boxes in her arms, Bridget dragged her feet up to the front door and hesitated. Moment of truth…

Before she could knock, Fen whipped the door open.

“You made it!”

Suddenly, Bridget was inside the foyer, her arms were relieved of their burden of baked goods, and Fen was wrapping her in a hug.

“Yeah!” Bridget cringed. She’d meant to sound bright and enthusiastic. Instead, the word came out sounding like she had a severe stomachache and desperately needed the bathroom.

Whispering in her ear, Fen said, “I know you’d still be standing out there if I hadn’t opened the door. Don’t be nervous. It’s gonna be fine.”

The reassurance did not quite have its intended effect; it made Bridget want to throw up. How utterly backwards it seemed for Fen to be comforting her.

“Okay.” Needing to change the subject, Bridget inspected her sister once they’d pulled apart. “You look nice.”

Fen grinned. “I found the sweater secondhand with the tags still on! Can you believe it?” She did a twirl to show off her outfit. She’d gone for an understated Christmas look: a deep, pine-green knit sweater with gold sequined details; a pair of skinny jeans she’d had since high school and which, infuriatingly, still looked incredible; gold stud earrings; and a satin headband printed with gingerbread houses. Bridget was keenly aware of, and a little embarrassed by, the baggy Christmas sweater, patterned with faded candy canes and reindeer, that she’d dug out of a box under her bed that morning before she hit the road. No amount of fabric freshener had been able to quite banish the musty smell clinging to the wool.

“I feel a little underdressed.” A flush crept into her cheeks as soon as the words left her mouth. Had she really said that? Was that really what she was going to complain about? What was wrong with her?

“Don’t be silly.” Fen rolled her eyes. “Freddie matches you. He’s wearing an ugly Christmas sweater, too.”

As if on cue, a figure appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hi, Bridget. M-Merry Christmas.”

Well, there was no enthusiasm in Freddie’s tone. His green eyes were serious. But there didn’t seem to be much bitterness in his face, either. And while the smile he gave her was small—it was still a smile.

It was ridiculous how happy Bridget was to see the enormous snowman splashed across his chest. A stupid amount of relief that she wasn’t the only one wearing a goofy sweater. God, why do I even care? “Hey, Freddie. Nice sweater. Merry Christmas.”

She had to concentrate on that garish snowman, because if she didn't, she’d stare at his hand—once shattered by Kain Brockhurst and then reconstructed by Bridget’s own healing gift—or his face, surely haunted by the horrors Kain had put him through.

“I can take these to the kitchen,” he said, descending the stairs to retrieve the stack of boxes. “See you in a minute.”

Bridget waited until he’d disappeared to speak. “If it’s going to be awkward, I can go. I—I get it.”

Fen grabbed her hand. “Bridget.”

Tears were already prickling the back of Bridget’s eyes, and Fen hadn’t even said anything yet.

“I want you here.”

Bridget squeezed her eyes closed. What had she done to deserve a sister like Fen? Nothing. “You shouldn’t, though. And I know Mom doesn’t. Not really.”

How Fen had found it in her heart to forgive her for what had happened was beyond her understanding. If Bridget had never stolen Kain’s formula, then he never would have kidnapped and tortured her sister. If she’d kept a better eye on Freddie, he never would have snuck out and gotten captured and nearly murdered—poisoned. And if she’d given up the formula as soon as Kain asked for it, or gone to the government earlier, then so much of their pain could have been avoided.

Yet here was Fen, gazing at her with sorrow in her eyes, but no blame. “B…” She choked on the old nickname. No one used it anymore. Not since Kain had ruined it for everyone. “Listen to me. I want you here.”

Bridget flung her arms around her sister. Why did it feel like her heart was cracking down the centre, when her sister was being nothing but kind? “I know. I’m sorry. I want to be here, too. I swear.”

“Good.” Fen wiped a tear from her own eye, sniffing dramatically. “You’re going to make me ruin my mascara. Then you’ll really be sorry.”

Bridget snorted. “When did you get so vain?”

Fen chuckled but didn’t answer. Bridget held onto her hand, not ready to let go of the moment. Not yet.

“Fen…” She swallowed. “Will you tell me, seriously? Are you doing okay?” It was a stupid question, a preposterous question. Maybe even a little disgusting that Bridget needed to ask when she should have just known. But Fen was back in school, and when they met up for brief coffee dates, they never talked about what had happened. Just about papers and exams and commutes and work and other awful, mundane things.

Fen’s gaze softened, turned distant, roving absently over the paintings on the foyer wall. “I… really am.”

Squeezing her sister’s fingers, Bridget said, “For real?”

With a gentle nod, Fen squeezed back. “It… I… It’s taken some time. It has. Taking the winter semester off last year… That was a good idea. I needed that, um, time. And rest. But it was also really good once I went back to school. All the papers keep me busy. I still have bad dreams sometimes, but..” She glanced up the stairs, at the space where Freddie had been standing. “I mean, I think he might have it harder. He still has nightmares, too. And the stutter comes back more often now. You remember when it was really strong in high school?” Bridget nodded. “And, you know, other stuff. He’s a little sad.”

As she finished speaking, a faintly stricken look crossed Fen’s face. “Don’t repeat any of that, okay? Like, I know it wasn’t… bad or anything… but don’t mention it. Please. I’m trusting you.”

“I promise,” Bridget said, halting a shudder as it attempted to travel down her body. Her gut was churning; she could only imagine the nightmares Freddie had been left with. “Is he talking to someone?”

Fen nodded. “We both are. We all are, actually.”

Bridget blinked. “Mom?”

“Yup.”

The thought of trying to explain the context—the comic-book-fodder drama—to someone unfamiliar with Kain Brockhurst and the lab that had turned him into what he was now made Bridget dizzy. The thought of their mother talking to a therapist nearly knocked her to the floor.

Fen raised her eyebrows. “Did you make any appointments yet?” She tapped her foot against the floor.

“In the New Year, actually.” Bridget kept her voice light, hoping Fen wouldn't detect the lie.

Her sister’s eyes narrowed, and Bridget knew she hadn’t gotten away with it, but Fen didn’t press the matter. “Good…” She paused. “Yeah. Good. Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”

Their dad was by the kitchen table, dancing along to “Jingle Bell Rock,” which seemed to be causing difficulties as he poured himself a glass of eggnog. Bridget smiled. The sloshing against the side of the glass and over its rim wasn’t deterring Dave Bailey from his dance at all.

“Hey, Dad,” Bridget said, giggling despite the knot in her stomach.

He nearly dropped the carton. “Bridget! I didn’t hear the door!” He flung his arms around her, pulling her in tight. “I’ve missed you, kiddo.”

I've missed you too, Dad.

“Don’t stay away so long next time.” He brushed a piece of hair out of her face, then grinned and gestured toward the eggnog. “You want some?”

Only if you’re adding some rum to it. She opted not to say that out loud.

“I’ll get you a glass,” Freddie said. He’d just reappeared, but he ducked away again, heading for the cupboard.

“Where’s Mom?” Bridget’s voice was flat, and she hated herself for it. Mrs. Fiona Song was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh… you know. Doing Christmas things. Running around.” Her dad accepted the glass Freddie handed him and began to pour.

Avoiding me.

“I have something for everyone,” Fen said before Bridget could accidentally verbalize her thought. “Ready?”

Even Freddie’s eyebrows drifted upwards. Apparently, whatever Fen was about to bring out, it was a surprise to him, too.

A grin swept across Bridget’s face as Fen grabbed a glittery, oversized red stocking that had been resting in a corner of the room. “Dad first!” From within, she pulled the ugliest, gaudiest Santa hat ever to exist, complete with a jingling bell at its tip.

Dave burst into laughter. “Wow! It’s what I’ve always wanted.” He accepted the gift with a flourish and tugged it over his ears, snorting when it just barely fit.

“Freddie next.” Fen’s cheeks pinkened as he crossed the room to stand next to her, his fingers grazing hers. He also received a Santa hat in his outstretched hand, this one bright green. Her next words were an almost-conspiratorial whisper, meant for him but audible to everyone. “It matches your eyes.”

Freddie’s face turned bright red as he leaned down to let Fen crown him with the ridiculous hat. “I love it.” He was smiling, though the flush still stained his skin all the way to his neck as he brushed his lips against Fen’s. “It’s p-perfect.”

Had it been anyone else, any other time, Bridget would have been rolling her eyes and pretending to gag. PDA, even when it was subtle, was so not her thing.

But with these two, it was hard to get annoyed.

Eyes alight, Fen turned to Bridget. “Your turn.” Excitement radiated from every inch of her, from her beaming face and bouncing feet. “Here you go!”

Bridget braced herself for her own Santa hat. What awful, hard-on-the-eyes colour had her sister chosen for her?

Her breath caught in her chest. It wasn’t a goofy hat that Fen pulled from her stocking. The gift in her hands was a satin headband, adorned with gingerbread houses—a perfect twin to the one she was wearing in her dark hair.

A lump grew in Bridget’s throat. “Thank… thank you.” Was she whispering? She hadn’t meant to. “It’s… It’s so….” She swallowed. “It matches yours.”

“Put it on!” Fen gave her a gentle nudge with her hip. “I wanna see what it looks like.”

With trembling fingers, Bridget tugged her hair out of its messy ponytail, gave it a half-hearted finger comb, and slipped the headband behind her ears. “I’m sure it looks cuter on you.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Fen said. “It looks awesome. Doesn’t it, Freddie?”

The corners of Freddie’s mouth quirked upward, and Bridget appreciated his answer even though it was clear what his true opinion was. “It looks great on b-both of you.”

Soft, slippered footsteps scritched across the floor in the hallway, heralding the arrival Bridget had been waiting for yet dreading. Every muscle in her body, relaxed and easy for a solid three and a half minutes, tensed again.

“Hi, Mom.” She’d forgotten to take the tag off the end of the headband, and it was cutting into her skin, stinging and itching at once. May as well be the one to make an effort. “Merry…”

God, she felt stupid, in this ridiculous Christmas sweater and this silly gingerbread headband, and it was hot in here, and when she glanced away, it was Freddie’s hand on her sister’s arm that caught her gaze, the shiny pinkish-white scar in the centre of his hand and the horrific memories that accompanied it—

“... Christmas.” Every drop of moisture was gone from her mouth.

Fiona stood in the doorway, still half in the hall. “Hi, Bridget.”

Bridget held her breath.

Slowly, as if she were approaching an undetonated mine, her mother inched closer. “Glad you made it safely.” A long pause. “How was traffic?”

Spinning, rumbling fractures rumbled beneath Bridget’s feet, resonating from the earth’s crust. This is really happening. She’s actually talking to me. Her mother wasn’t kicking her out. Wasn’t throwing a frying pan at her face. Wasn’t even shouting.

“It was, um, awful.” A nervous giggle slipped out of her, and the honest answer came out before she could think of something less true but more positive. “I thought I’d be on the highway forever.”

“Typical holiday traffic.” Her mother shifted her weight, shuffling in place for a few moments before she turned to the oven. “I should check the turkey.”

“Wait!” Fen bolted across the room. “You still need yours!”

“My what?” Their mom was stiff, her voice hard, but her gaze softened when she looked over at her younger daughter. Who, despite everything, was smiling. Laughing. Giving out silly gifts as if, a year ago, she hadn’t been bucking off the ropes of trauma that had tried so hard to tie her down.

“Your present, obviously.” Fen reached into her stocking and whipped out the last item. Bridget choked. It was the most ridiculous one of all.

“Oh, Fen, really?”

Fen ignored the weak protest in her mother’s voice and slipped the headband, decorated with sequined antlers, onto Fiona’s head. “You look beautiful.”

Bridget bit her lip, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry, and waited for their mom to sigh and tug the antlers off. “They look good, Mom.”

“They’ll get in the way when I lean down to get the bird,” Fiona said, looking a little helpless.

“I’ll check it,” Freddie said, his voice quiet, his mouth still turned slightly up. And in what was perhaps a Christmas miracle, Fiona didn’t argue with him or rip the silly headband off her head.

“Well,” said their dad with a wicked grin, turning on the heat beneath the steamer pot that housed a mountain or broccoli, “if Freddie’s handling the food, let’s go see what movies are on the TV.”

Freddie shot him a baleful look at the implication that he was now in charge of the entire Christmas dinner.

“Yeah,” said Fen, her eyes sparkling, “thanks, honey, for volunteering. See you later. Maybe the Grinch is on.”

“Hilarious.” But when Freddie stood upon straight again, waving steam away from his face, he was smiling. “How’s this?” He pulled the roasting pan’s lid free. “How’s it looking, in your expert opinion?”

Fiona peered over the pan, examining the skin with a discerning eye. “Few more minutes. What about the Brussels sprouts? They doing okay?”

Freddie returned the turkey to the oven and pulled out the vegetables. “They look good to me.”

Not even wincing from the heat when her fingertips plucked a glistening sprout from the tray, Fiona took a bite. “Perfect.”

And it was, Bridget realized. Not the stupid Brussels sprouts—she hated the damn things—but this. This Christmas. Her mother being stiff and standoffish, but actually looking at her. Freddie stuttering and keeping his distance, but wearing forgiveness in his gaze. Her dad cracking jokes and downing eggnog that might or might not have had a few glugs of rum stirred in. Fen pulling out her phone and dragging everyone to the Christmas tree for a truly embarrassing set of selfies.

Bridget grinned as the iPhone light flashed. Even with the ever-present knot in her belly and brand-new tracking chip in her arm, this Christmas was already a hundred times better than last year’s.

“Glad you came after all?” Fen whispered in her ear, handing off the phone to Freddie so he could hold it in his longer arms to get everyone in the picture.

Blinking away tears, Bridget nodded. “Yeah. I really am.”

“I know I already said it, but…” Fen bit her lip, her eyes also shimmering. “Merry Christmas, B. I love you.”

“Merry Christmas.” Bridget wrapped her arms around her little sister. “I love you, too.”