(no subject)
Title: A Fairy Isn’t Just For Christmas
Genre: Festive AU comedy one-shot
Pairing : P/C
Rating : Fluffier than a newborn kitten. Christmas brings out my tame side! ;)
Mild drugs refs. and ripe language.
Word Count : 4,205
Beta Mistresses : dreams579 and lualba
Disclaimer : This is intended to be a comedy, so any claims made herein are total fantasy and not meant to reflect on any living person or cast aspersion on their lifestyle.
A Fairy Isn’t Just for Christmas...
“Oi! Watch where yer sticking that flamin’ tree!”
Backing away from his half-decorated Christmas tree, Carl stumbles backward in shock, festive beads and trinkets crunching crisply under three-inch heels. His eardrums pinging like a belted tambourine skin at the aural assault of a strangely familiar, yet oddly high-registered voice.
“Pete? What the fuck are you doing here?”
Carl scans his bauble-bestrewn but empty living room for signs of the strange disembodied voice, frowning in puzzlement. Then jumps backwards again in fright as he finally registers the source of the high-pitched words - the tiny tutu’d figure, struggling in the grip of his palm, where an inanimate Tesco's ‘Girl’s Aloud’ Christmas Tree Fairy (Bargain Discount - only £4.99!) once lay.
“What the fuck? Pete! How did you get here? And why are you so friggin’... small?”
Tiny Tutu’d Peter stops struggling long enough to right the sparkling tiara slipping off his ruffled, tousled head and glares up angrily at Carl.
“What I’m doin’ here, matey, is getting a bloody-great-big, fuck-off Christmas tree stuck up my jaxi, if you keep goin’. For the love of the wee man, put me down, eh? Yer gonna leave my tiny arse in tatters if y’carry on with this malarky and y’know I’ve never been good with heights. I’m feeling dizzy as fuck, to be honest.”
Speechless with shock, Carl does as bid, gently depositing Tiny Peter onto the only space of the living room floor that isn’t covered with tangled Christmas decorations. Peter rescues the slipping straps of his white satin tutu back onto his shoulders, then hoists himself up onto a nearby box of liqueurs with a flurried fluff of petticoats and a relieved sigh.
“Ooh, Christ, that’s better. Thought I was gonna spew on yer tinsel, there, for a moment. Think of the tarnish stains, Missus!”
Carl realises that a chill breeze is hitting his gums from the cracked window he’s always meant to fix, if he knew the first thing about DIY. And that can only mean one thing - his mouth is hanging open - so he shuts it with a click of tooth enamel. Still reeling in shock, he drops to the carpet with a thump, his arse hitting a Sainsbury’s Squeezable Santa (Special Xmas Offer - buy one, get one free!) and a richly sonorous, ‘Merry Christmas! Yo-ho-ho!’ rings out across the room. In the pin-drop silence that follows, Carl rakes shaky fingers through his hair, then mutters,
“Jesus... I really shouldn’t have dropped that last tab. This is all I need...”
In the growing gloom, Tiny Peter’s dark eyes twinkle with reflected fairy lights (Only £12.99 from Homebase - click your fingers and they wink!) and some other kind of fairy light all his own. His next words emerge lispily-slurred-familiar in tone, but a good octave north of his usual vocal range.
“Aw Carlos, love, relax. It’s Christmas, innit? ‘T is the season of Bacchanalian revelry. Wine, women and song. Or acid, spliff and how’s yer father, in your case. Rejoice! Chill out, mate. Kick back a bit. Toss yer lovely hair, like you just don’t care. Granted, tonight, y’might’ve screwed yer brain with the entire Hoffmann-La Roche back catalogue, but it don’t mean you and me can’t have a nice little festive chit-chat on the quiet, eh?”
Peter rubs his tiny hands together chummily and casts his eyes around the room.
“So... ’Missus away, is she?”
Leaning forward, Carl unsteadily approaches the liqueur box on hands and knees until his head is inches away from Tiny Peter’s own and tries to conceal the tremor of drugs-rush panic in his voice.
“Pete. I’m only gonna ask you this one more time, ok? After that, I’m gonna officially freak out, big time. ‘Cos I’m on the verge of losing it here. So, flamin’ well answer me straight. What are you doing here? Why the fuck are you so bloody small? And while we’re at it, why are you dressed as a friggin’ fairy?”
Peter’s pipingly high-pitched reply is airily unconcerned, one tiny ring-bedecked hand reaching out to pat Carl’s cheek, the touch of his minuscule hand softer than an angel’s wing.
“Haven’t a bleedin’ clue, Carlos, m’old love. This is your hallucination, not mine, remember? You’ve conjured me up, you tell me. Why d’ya want me to be so small? And what made you think of me dressed as a fairy, eh? Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, mate, but that’s a set of more pertinent questions right there, if you don’t mind me saying so. Take yer time answering, ‘cos if you’ve just dropped acid, I know we’ve got all night.”
With a sigh of irritation, so forceful it nearly knocks Tiny Peter backward off his chocolate box perch, Carl throws himself down again on the carpet.
“Piss off. Christ, even when you’re three inches tall and dollied up like a tiny tart in a tutu, you’re still as annoying as fuck, y’know that? Figures.”
Re-straightening his breath-blown tiara and re-hoisting a similarly slipped tutu strap, Peter chuckles. A sound akin to tiny glass bells tinkling.
“Woops! And here comes the old Carlos step-one-two, aggression-as-avoidance tactic. Some things never change, eh? Figures.”
Jumping to his feet, Carl marches to the kitchen, grabs a bottle of Jameson and a tumbler (Free festive reindeer glass with every bottle purchased - only at Threshers!) then marches back to the living room.
“Right, then. Whisky, I think. Sod putting up with this shite and sod putting up the Christmas tree. If this is what I’m gonna have to deal with for the next 12 hours, oblivion’s the only answer.”
As Carl pours himself a generous quadruple, he suddenly feels tiny, grasping hands tugging frantic at his trouser leg.
“Oi, Greedy! Giz some of that, eh? Please? Season of good will and all that. I’m gasping.”
Downing most of his whisky in one, Carl coughs off the burn in his throat then stares in wonder at the diminutive figure dancing at his ankles like some microscopic rave-spanner. As the tutu straps inevitably head south again, Carl can’t help but marvel at the anatomically correct yet minuscule brown nipples and gaudy tattoowork on his mysteriously shrunken friend. Eventually, he mutters,
“The bloody bottle’s ten times the size of ya, how the fuck’re you gonna drink from it, y’ tiny gifflet?”
Tiny Peter stops dancing instantly, winks and adopts a comical posh voice.
“Splash a dash in the old bottle cap, eh? There’s a good chap. I’ll do m’best for Blighty. Y’ know me, Colonel Biggles. When it comes to caning it, us chaps always find a way.”
As Carl chuckles then angles the whisky-filled cap of the bottle on the carpet, Peter’s head disappears for a moment with a loud slurp then comes out grinning from ear to tiny ear, accent firmly back within the sound of Bow bells.
“Ooh, that’s the ticket, love. Can’t beat a drop of the auld Irish. Ta for that.”
Clutching at Carl’s Top Man ‘Christmas Socks’ (Special Yuletide Offer - £6.99 for three pairs!), Peter hoists himself up onto Carl’s ankle and sits astride him. Tiny toes twinking under satin ballet pumps, as he swings his little nyloned legs to and fro. One dark eyebrow raised in minxy amusement.
“So, then... had a deep desire to be bigger than me for a while, have ya?”
“Would you like that great big fuck off Christmas tree shoved right up yer tiny arse right now?”
“Alright love, calm yer Calvins.”
Settling back against Carl’s foot, Peter stretches out his little legs and throws his hands behind his head with a knowing grin.
“If yer gonna take that attitude, I think we’d better skip question two, eh?”
Carl shakes his head and pours himself another heroic measure, trying to quell the sudden, irresistible urge to drop-kick Tiny Tutu’d Peter into the nearest wastepaper bin. This is my punishment for getting monged off my tits when I should have been doing the decent thing and getting the place looking nice for Her Nibs comin’ home tomorrow. Serves me bleedin’ well right...
Peter’s soft, high voice interrupts Carl’s self-punishing train of thought.
“You know something Carlos? Been thinking. Fairies are like puppies.”
“I’m sorry?”
“They’re not just for Christmas, they’re for life.”
Carl downs his second drink in one and sighs heavily,
“Ok, Pete. Now, I’m officially confuddled. Let’s take it from the top. Am I supposed to pop a tenner in yer RSPCA bucket at this point, break into ‘Wish Upon A Star’ in me tap shoes, or what?”
“You know what I mean.”
Carl glares at Peter. Irritation mounting.
“I flamin’ well do not, y’diminutive ponce. Give us a bloody clue what the fuck yer on about.”
“I mean it’s nice to talk to you.”
Peter sighs and shrugs his tiny tattooed shoulders. Feathery eyelashes fluttering suddenly despondent at his cheeks.
“Even if I am just a hallucination, a figment of your warped imagination.”
Fishing in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes and matches, Carl mutters testily,
“Yeah, well... you’ve been a walking, talking hallucination in my life for years, mate. Whatever size you are, however weirdly you’re friggin’ dressed and whichever way you look at it, so...”
Tiny Peter’s faltering smile evaporates completely. Unnoticed by an oblivious Carl, too busy struggling to light a cigarette as his field of vision morphs mysteriously into a Pink Floyd lightshow, circa 1968...
“Carlos, love. Can I respectfully point out to yer at this point that you’re the one trippin’ here, not me? Those lovely blue eyes of yours look like piss-holes in the snow.”
“Fuck off, Pete.”
“Alright, Carl.”
Finally managing to light his cigarette, Carl registers the hurt in Peter’s last reply seconds before he realises The Tiny Tutu’d One has clambered off his ankle and is storming off in high dudgeon towards the forest of Day-Glo tinsel (Klaxons-Authorised New Rave Tinsel! Free with your copy of the Christmas NME!) piled haphazardly on the floor. Carl watches Peter’s battling progress through the gaudy, shimmering thicket, fascinated by his miniature friend’s misguided daring-do as he disappears completely into the forest of tat. Then chuckles as the rippling bulge in the tinsel comes to a sudden halt in the middle of the pile and a high-pitched whirlwind of disembodied cursing ensues.
“Fuckshitcuntingbuggerybollocks! Owwie! FortheloveofGodalmighty..!”
Carl pours himself another whisky and waits, one eye on the suddenly motionless, silent mound of tinsel. A lip-bitten smile playing at his mouth. Eventually, a barely audible, high-pitched voice breaks the silence.
“Erm... help?”
Creasing up with noiseless laughter, Carl waits catlike until two tiny fingers poke out of the tinsel and wave pointedly in his direction.
“Alright, bastard. Y’can stop biting it back. I know yer laughing. Now fuckin’ get me out of here, will ya? I’m suffocating and me nickel allergy’s playin’ up something chronic. Itches to buggery.”
Now chuckling openly, Carl reaches across and starts to gently disentangle one glaring, pissed-off Indie fairy from the mire of Christmas tat.
“’S not the first time I’ve had to pull you out of a mess you walked straight into, eh?”
Finally, free of his tinsel stranglehold, Tiny Peter turns on his ballet-shoed heel and starts to stalk off again towards the living room door with a high-pitched mutter.
“Up yours, Barât, you wanker.”
It flits through Carl’s mind as he watches Peter’s theatrical exit that, actually, if he’s honest, he was feeling a tad lonely before Peter showed up. Which is why he dropped the acid in the first place. And that while, so far, it’s been the usual mixed bag of highs and lows, it has been kind of stimulating in a way he’s missed...
“No, wait... look... come back... I’m sorry, Pete, ok?”
As Peter stops in his tracks and looks back over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, Carl ventures his best placatory smile.
“Up mine, right enough.”
Carl waggles the bottle of Jameson in Pete’s direction, then adds,
“Sit down, yeah? You’re right, Pete. It is nice to talk.”
Splashing a little more whisky into the bottle cap, Carl proffers it as a peace offering to his slowly, sulkily returning little friend.
“And actually... it has always annoyed me you’re bigger than me...”
Carl watches Tiny Peter’s head disappear into the bottle cap again with a gurgling sound and a muffled hiccup. When he re-emerges his little cheeks are booze-flushed and pink and Carl can’t help smiling at the twinkly, sozzled light in his big button eyes. Carl shakes his head in wonderment.
“Well... normally.”
Tiny Tutu-d Peter scrambles back up Carl’s socks and resumes his perch astride Carl’s ankle with a cherry-lipped grin.
“I know, love. But then, it’s always annoyed me you’re a better guitar player than me, so...”
Carl can’t help a swift riposte. The old familiar rush of competition making his heart beat-skip a little faster.
“Well, wouldn’t be difficult, eh?”
“Fuck off, short arse.”
“Right back at ya, bum note.”
“It’s not about the execution, Carlos. It’s about the feel.”
“Keep telling yerself that, sweetheart. Maybe someday you’ll convert the world.”
As both dissolve into fits of giggles at the lightning speed banter, Peter gets to his feet and starts to tipsily tightrope walk his way up Carl’s denim-clad leg, tiny tattooed arms held out for balance.
“Aw, this is just like old times this, innit? Nothin’ like a bit of the old one-two, buckle yer shoe.”
Carl snorts whisky down his nose, and splutters,
“Yeah... apart from you’re a whopping seventy-two inches shorter than I remember you and you’re dressed like a friggin’ Bratz doll. That’s easily the bizzarest outfit I’ve seen you in and God knows I’ve seen a few.”
Peter comes to a chuckling halt at the top of Carl’s thigh and looking down, pats his satin-clad, little, rounded belly.
“Aw, c’mon, now... Think Barbie’s more my style love, don’t you? Got the legs for Barbie, ain’t got the waist for a Bratz doll, more’s the pity. But, I’m lovin’ the schmutter. Birds get all the best clothes.”
Chuckling, Peter executes a pirouette of sheer dizzy delight, white satin skirt and netting petticoats flying until his lop-sided tiara finally gives up the ghost, tumbling into Carl’s whisky glass on the floor far below with a tiny tinkle.
“Anyway, mere details, Carlos. At least we’re together and talking, eh?”
“Yeah... you’re right. ‘S nice.”
“We should do it more often, when we’re not under the influence. Talking about myself here, clearly. Not you.”
Carl sighs and fishes the tiara out of his drink, then unthinkingly places it on his pinkie as a ring where it sparkles softly under the Christmas tree lights. Momentarily entranced at the dancing play of star-spangles, eventually he murmurs,
“We’ll always be under the influence of something, Pete. Don’t kid yourself. Y’might be off the hard stuff but yer still knocking back the drinkies just like me, eh.”
Carl drains his glass, the tumbler of whisky momentarily hiding Tiny Peter from view. When Carl drops the glass again, Peter is staring up at him with a softly serious gaze. Brown eyes black and endless.
“True. Be nice to just be under the influence of each other again, though, wouldn’t it?”
Carl blinks. Startled.
“Yeah, maybe...”
One tiny eyebrow shoots upward.
“Just maybe?”
Carl sighs heavily and looks away.
“No, definitely... it’s just...”
“What?”
Carl’s muttered reply is addressed to the Squeezable Santa lying comatose by his side, rather than Peter.
“Y’fucking scare me, Pete. You always have.”
Peter’s chocolate button eyes widen in disbelief.
“Scare you? Why, fer Godsake?”
Carl’s eyes shoot a quick-fire glance at Lilliputian Pete then go back to the inanimate safety of Squeezable St. Nick.
“I dunno... You’re just so out of control a lot of the time. Up in the air one minute, down in the dumps the next. Anything can happen around you and it usually fuckin’ does.”
“Hello? And you’re not?”
Carl shifts uncomfortably.
“No... well... yeah, I know, but... Let’s just say I keep a lid on it. Show some decorum. That’s all.”
“Decency and secrecy, eh?”
Carl finally looks back at Peter, the burn of anger once again replacing the burn of alcohol in his chest.
“Well, what’s wrong with that, eh?”
Tiny Peter shrugs.
“Dunno. Just feels like lies to me. Sorry. It’s just the way I am.”
“Yeah, well, sorry. To me, it’s decorum. I’m just the way I am, too.”
“Ok.”
“Ok, what?”
“Ok, that’s just the way you are and I accept that.”
Carl shakes his head in disbelief and pours himself another drink.
“Christ. Someone’s been to therapy...”
A tiny finger pokes pointedly into the soft flesh of Carl’s stomach.
“Yeah, well maybe you should go too, eh?”
Carl stares at Peter for a moment, memories of all the highs and the lows flooding back and making his heart ache and his head spin, then mutters,
“Fair enough.”
Peter’s little face opens up into a delighted grin at Carl meeting him at a seldom-visited point - half-way. Leaning forward, he tickles Carl’s tummy with his tiny fingers,
“Hey! Don’t you call me Fairy Nuff. Show some respect for my dinky self, eh?”
Despite himself, Carl can’t help giggling. The ridiculousness of his current situation - having an in depth convo with some diminutive, dreamt-up Disney version of his former partner - suddenly hitting him full force, all anger fading away.
“God. This is nuts. This is Bumper Bar Cadbury’s Fruit and Nuts, it really is.”
Tiny Peter turns from his position on Carl’s hip to gaze back down the length of Carl’s faded Levi’s.
“Well, I have to tell you, mate, from where I’m standing, the nuts look well impressive. Fuck me...”
Carl leans forward to swipe a gentle finger at the back of Tiny Peter’s feather soft hair, making him yelp, then chuckles,
“Oi, you. Don’t be ogling what you can’t take. I mean, if you thought that Christmas tree was gonna make yer eyes water...”
With a high-pitched giggle, Peter clambers up Carl’s hip to a dip in his bent stomach where he can rest easy, eyes twinkling with festive mischief.
“Ok. So, c’mon then, Carlito, it’s Christmas and looks like I’m your personal fantasy fairy for the evening, y’kinky bastard. Let’s make the most of this. I’ll grant you three wishes. What d’ya fancy?”
Carl does a swift double take.
“Hang on a minute, what’s all this? That’s a genie, innit? Not a fairy.”
Peter wags a tiny admonishing finger.
“Don’t be splitting hairs, Carlos. You’d have a breakdown and Boots would run out of conditioner. And never look a gift fairy in the mouth, neither, is my advice... unless you know what’s good for you. So, c’mon, Sweet Prince. Shoot.”
Suddenly weary at being offered anything, when so very much of the time he suspects he deserves nothing, Carl runs his fingers through his hair and sighs,
“Aw, fuck... I dunno...”
“Y’must want something.”
“Oh alright then, happiness.”
“Done... Shit... Wait a minute, haven’t quite got the hang of this, yet. Where’s me wand?”
Carl gives a knowing wink.
“Under yer tutu?”
Peter bats back an affectionate grin.
“Saucy!”
Casting his gaze around the room, Peter points to the overflowing ashtray at Carl’s side.
“Here. Pass us that spent match. It’s time to improvise.”
Carl passes the matchstick to Peter who then makes great show of waving it in the air with a theatrical flourish.
“There y’go. Be happy. Ta-da!”
Carl shakes his head, bemused.
“Can’t feel a thing, mate.”
Peter shoots back a knowing look.
“Personally speaking, that’s the best definition of happiness I’ve ever come across. Must’ve worked, eh? Ok, wish numero duo. Whatcha after?”
Swirling the whisky around in his glass, Carl scans the ceiling for a moment, lost in thought.
“Let’s see... oh, I know. This time, I’ll take world peace.”
“Pfffft!”
Carl drops his gaze back to Peter.
“What?”
Tiny Peter rolls his eyes and throws out a dismissive hand.
“Give over! I think you meant t’say I’ll take half of Columbia, didn’t ya? Just came out wrong.”
A furrow forms again at Carl’s brow, blue eyes darkening dangerously as they narrow.
“Get to fuck, Gifflerina. I know what I meant.”
Peter smirks.
“To the hand, Mother Theresa. I know what goes on in that big, ghey-pink tourbus of yours. Y’should just get yerselves sponsored by Coca-Cola and be done with it, y’know that? But, hey, since it’s you and since it’s Christmas, granted. Nowt wrong with a bit of world peace on the quiet. At least it’ll make getting a night bus through Hackney a more pleasant experience in future.”
In the eerie hush that follows, Carl’s anger melts away again in wonder as the monotonous cacophony of London outside his window drops to perfect silence. No looping sirens, no drunken shouting, no car horns beeping in gridlocked irritation. Then, magically, a lone nightingale starts merrily chirping, possibly in Berkeley Square, because as far as Carl can register, everything else in London’s pissed-up, partying parade has ground suddenly to a halt. Carl returns his gaze to the tiny grinning Peter now stretched out, lying on his tummy across Carl’s heart. Little, gentle fingers sneaking into Carl’s shirt to toy playfully with the odd chest hair. Shiny marble eyes shoot upward merrily to lock onto Carl’s own.
“Ok, next? Last one, mind. Choose carefully, Biggles.”
Reminded yet again of the inexplicable love he feels for his exasperating, frightening, life-enhancing friend, Carl sighs and brings a tentative finger down to rub gently at Peter’s back, then whispers,
“For the rest of this hallucination, I’d like you life-size, here with me.”
With a blinding flash of light, Carl’s feels his body thrown backward, head hitting carpet, baubles crunching under cotton, a great weight suddenly upon his chest. Stunned, he opens his eyes to a full-size Peter, naked as the day he was born, his eyes wide with shock, cherry lips parting with stunned surprise.
“Ow! Christ on a perambulator! They don’t make tutus like they used to. So much for Lycra-stretch. Nearly had me eye out. Not to mention me unmentionables cheese-cuttered! Bleedin’ hell...”
Carl registers the absurdity of the situation, feels the warmth of Peter’s body close to his and starts to giggle. Uncontrollably. Peter’s shivering body shakes with both his own mirth and Carl’s, his voice dropping an octave back to his normal register.
“You gonna be a gentleman and pop the heating on, then? Or am I gonna have to freeze my tits off, here?”
When the mutual giggling finally stops, Carl wraps his arms around Peter in a firm grip, eyebrows waggling mischievously.
“Could just hug you instead.”
Peter grins.
“Feels good to me.”
Carl strokes Peter’s velvety, bare behind and murmurs,
“Now this really is just like old times.”
“What, me lying stark fuckin’ naked on top of you in the middle of the... “
Peter stops. Memory finally catching up with mouth.
“Oh, yeah! It is, innit? In that case, c’mon, Softboy...”
Peter pauses, then smiles with a mercurial change of voice,
“Gizza kiss, then Mister, eh?”
Carl grins at Peter’s sudden switch to a Liverpudlian accent. An old sitcom script they used to love popping easily to mind, like a heart-memoried conversation. When he replies, his own accent has headed north in sympathy.
“Y’askin’?”
“I’m askin’. Y’dancin’?”
“I’m dancin’, alright...”
Carl pauses, accent fading, voice softening,
“... To Northern Soul in me white plimsolls...”
The light of happiness in Peter’s grinning face could put the Regent Street Christmas lights to shame.
“Alriiiiight, then.”
Carl shuts his eyes as Peter’s soft lips connect with his own, sighs when Peter’s warm tongue enters him. Mouths moving easily together, as they always did. And it occurs to Carl, not for the first time in his life, that sometimes good things come from bad. That maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to do the wrong thing, the indecent thing for once. That even when he wakes up sober and remorseful tomorrow, he will always have the memory of this Christmas night, how a strange hallucination chased the blues away and how happy and alive it made him feel. Opening his eyes, Carl pulls out of the kiss and whispers fondly,
“Chin chin, love.”
Pete’s velvety eyes sparkle with a little remaining fairy dust. His grin, open and heartfelt, his voice soft with love.
“Chin chinski. And merry Christmas, Biggles.”
“Yeah, merry Christmas, Bilo.”
THE END
Merry Christmas, everyone. xxx...
Quoted TV Series : “Y’askin’?” / “I’m askin’. Y’dancin’?” / “I’m dancin’” from The Liver Birds (British sitcom set in Liverpool, 1969-1996) Created by Myra Taylor & Carla Lane, Written by Lew Schwartz, Starring Nerys Hughes and Polly James
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0063924/