title: 'tis the damn season
fandom: little women
pairing: theodore laurence x amy march
rating: m
summary: after beth's passing, amy comes home for christmas. it's amazing how some things will never be the same, but others will never change. (an amylaurie holiday au inspired by taylor swift's 'tis the damn season.)
author's note: i've been meaning to write this story for literal years. starting early so i can hopefully get it finished before the holidays!
'tis the damn season
When is your flight out?”
“Tomorrow, early afternoon. Or late morning? I have to check again.”
“Okay. Are you packed yet?”
She looks at the mostly empty suitcase in front of her that holds only three pairs of socks and her favorite sweatpants so far.
“Sure,” she said.
Jo scoffs on the other end of the phone.
“You are coming, right?” she asks, half-kidding.
But then, Amy doesn’t answer.
“You are coming, right?” she asks again, her tone sharp now.
She huffs, running her hand through her loose hair.
“Amy,” Jo barks, and she could tell her sister was about to reprimand her. She spoke quickly, trying to preempt the speech she knew was about to start.
“Yes, Jo, I – ”
But Jo is already speaking over her.
“Because we need you here. Marmee needs you. And so does Meg, and Dad. Even Hannah hasn’t been holding it together very well lately.”
“Everyone except you,” she mutters under her breath, but her sister hears her, somehow.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Damn it. She realizes what she had implied.
“No, Jo, that’s not what I meant,” she assures her quickly. “I would never say that, or think that. You know I wouldn’t.”
“What did you mean, then?” Jo asks, voice still clipped.
“I just – you always seem more than capable of holding everyone together. You’re the glue, Jo. If anything, I just make everyone more uncomfortable.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind passing a few members of the family over onto your back for a while. Plus, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Why would you make everyone uncomfortable?”
She doesn’t answer, but the words hang in the air, unspoken but heavy.
Because I left. Because I wasn’t there. How could I have not been there?
“Amy,” Jo sighs finally.
“You said, Jo,” she murmurs, and she hates the way her voice trembles, like she’s twelve again and just burned her sister’s manuscript in the fireplace. “Even you said –”
“I know what I said,” Jo says firmly, “but I was angry and heartbroken and lost when I said it. I’m sorry, really. And this is, what, the sixth time I’ve apologized for it?”
“I know. I know.”
“I can’t stop you from feeling guilty about it, obviously, but you better believe that I’ll make you feel fifty times more guilty if you don’t come home.”
“I know, Jo,” she says, and she can’t help but smile slightly at her sister’s red-hot iron will. “I’m coming. My plane leaves at…” She pulls the phone away from her ear, scrolling through her Apple wallet until she finds her boarding pass. “My plane leaves at 10:30. I’ll be on it.”
“Promise?”
“Pinky swear.”
“Good.” A breath, and then, quieter, “I miss you, Amy. We all do. You should see the way Marmee’s face lights up every time someone mentions that you’re coming home.”
Her heart tugs at the mention of her mother, who she hasn’t seen for nine months.
Because I left. I left, came back, and then left again.
“I’m spending the day in the city with a friend from college, so just text me when you land and I’ll be there.”
Jo’s voice pulls her out of her head.
“Got it,” she says.
“I’m excited to see you, Amy. Really.”
“Jo, I already told you I’ll be on the plane. You don’t have to sweet talk me.”
“It’s not sweet talk. It’s just true. And try to relax, please. You’re not on trial. It’s just Christmas.”
She nods, even though her sister can’t see her, and then mumbles out a quick goodbye before hanging up the phone and tossing it onto her bed. She stares down at her barren suitcase, glances around at her messy apartment.
But how can Christmas be Christmas without Beth?
***
How can Christmas be Christmas without Beth?
It’s the only thought bouncing around in her head during her eight-hour flight from Paris to Boston. It can’t be. It won’t be. It will just be sad. Just like everything else in her life right now.
She’d stopped communicating anything significant to her family in the past year. They don’t know that the money Aunt March left her for art school is basically dried up; she has to keep pushing back her graduation date because she hasn’t been able to paint a single thing for months, and all the semesters she keeps tacking on are expensive. She hasn’t told them that she’s basically alone in Paris now, since all her friends graduated and Fred went back to London after she turned down his marriage proposal. Hell, they might think she’s still with Fred – she can’t remember if she managed to mention that they were over in passing.
And now, she was supposed to pretend everything was fine for a week. To make Christmas feel like Christmas without Beth. To put presents under the tree without carols being played on the piano, to bake sugar cookies without their best icing piper, to have a bonfire in the back yard without the person who liked s’mores the most out of all of them. To hang one less stocking on the mantle, set out one less place setting at the table, hand out one less set of pajamas on Christmas Eve.
She couldn’t fix it by coming home. They couldn’t fix it by all being together. It was a silly, stupid, preposterous idea, and she never should have gotten on this plane, she thinks once again, before taking her Paxil and a melatonin and pulling the hood of her sweatshirt over her eyes.
She awakes to a muffled message from the plane’s pilot over the intercom system, and when she looks out of the window, she sees the city below her. As the plane lands and she walks into the airport, she barely remembers to let Jo know, shooting off a quick text as she waits for her luggage. She shoves her phone in her pocket and then rubs a hand over her face. She somehow feels physically worse than she did before she slept.
Finally, she spots her bags, and she pulls them off the carousel before making her way to the pick-up line. It’s unusually sunny for a late December day in Massachusetts when she steps outside, and she squints, placing her hand over her eyes like a visor before hearing several honks and a voice shouting something that almost sounds like her name.
“Amy! Over here!”
She turns to her left. Jo is standing next to the most obnoxious Range Rover in existence, holding a white piece of posterboard with the words ‘Welcome Home’ scrawled across it in capital letters.
“She made a fucking sign,” she mutters under her breath, and the corner of her mouth almost turns up, despite herself.
She walks over to where her sister is parked, and Jo throws down the sign and wraps her arms around her in a hug so tight that it nearly lifts her toes off the ground.
“If you want me to save Christmas, Jo, you can’t crush my ribcage before we even get in the car.”
“Sorry!” Jo says, loosening her grip the tiniest bit, but holding on to her for a moment more. “I told you I missed my baby sister.”
She takes a step back, holding Amy at arm’s length for a moment, her eyes running over her form in a quick inspection.
“Everything look to be in its right place, Ms. March?”
Jo rolls her eyes, and then says cheekily, “Just making sure you still have all your fingers and toes,” before picking up her luggage and opening the trunk of the SUV.
“Is this…your car?” she asks skeptically.
“God, no,” Jo confirms. “I still drive Marmee’s old Prius.”
Jo bites her bottom lip, casting a sideways glance at her sister, almost like she’s deciding the best way to go about something, when she finally blurts out, “Teddy’s inside getting coffee. He should be out in just a minute.”
She closes the trunk quickly, and then darts around the car to the driver’s side, while Amy stands there, staring into space, feeling like someone just spilled a bucket of cold water over her head. She blinks – once, twice – before walking over to the front passenger door and opening it, getting inside the warm car.
The two sisters sit there, Jo glancing nervously at an Amy that’s still too caught off guard to speak.
“Amy,” Jo finally says cautiously, “are you okay?”
She blinks – once, twice.
“Yeah,” she breathes, and then shakes her head, trying to will away her sudden stomachache before speaking again, louder this time. “I’m fine. Just…I just didn’t expect…isn’t Laurie still at Wharton? He was never good at coming home for holidays.”
She doesn’t add on the fact that that particular habit only started after Jo broke his heart.
“Amy. Laurie graduated from Wharton a year and a half ago.”
Amy stares, and then makes herself laugh.
“Wow. Where have I been?”
“Europe,” Jo says bluntly.
“Yeah,” she says, trying to inject some sort of levity into her voice. “Yeah, I guess so. What is Laurie, um…up to, these days? Is he just home for Christmas?”
“He actually lives across the street again.”
“Theodore Laurence moved back to Concord?” she asks incredulously, eyebrows raising.
“He did,” Jo confirms. “He’s been helping Mr. Laurence with the business a lot.”
“Isn’t the commute from Concord to Boston a little long?”
“He works remotely most of the time. He has to travel here and there every so often, but not very much.”
She stares at her sister. Jo looks at her expectantly.
“What, Amy?” she asks, and then hesitates again, dropping the volume of her voice. “Is this because you two – ”
“No,” Amy says, too loudly and too quickly. “No. I just…”
She widens her eyes, presses her lips together, shakes her head again and doesn’t register the sound of the door behind her opening and closing.
“I guess I never thought Laurie would actually grow up and get his shit together.”
“Thanks a fuck ton, Ames,” his voice says from behind her, and she jumps. “I missed you, too,” he says, flicking the back of her head gently.
She doesn’t even have the time to turn around before he’s shoving a paper coffee cup into her cold hands.
“Here, hold this – your fingers look blue. I got you a matcha with almond milk and two pumps of vanilla. I figured you’d think your usual, run-of-the-mill, American latte would taste like swill after all your French and Italian coffee.”
She stares at the cup in her hands, wonders how he’s so good at this – at pretending everything is easy and fine.
“I haven’t made it to Italy yet,” she whispers, almost to herself, but he hears her.
“Amy, you’re killing me. Fine, next time I’ll get you a macchiato. Jo, are you sure you want to drive? There’s a lot of lunchtime traffic right now.”
“I’m fine,” Jo says.
“Jo, you can barely drive in Lexington,” Amy quips with an eyeroll. “You almost got into an accident in a parking lot that time we went to see the battlefield.”
“There she is,” she hears Laurie murmur from the backseat, as Jo begins a passionate speech about how much better she’s gotten at driving since Amy’s been gone.
She meets his gaze in the rear-view mirror, and he smiles gently, his eyes soft. She looks away, down at her cup, but then she’s reminded that he still remembers how she likes her drinks. She places the matcha in the cupholder, leans her head against the cool glass of the window, and closes her eyes.
