Happy Holidays, refche!
Title: Night Visiting
Written for: refche
Written by: Irisbleufic
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Pepper, Aziraphale, and a couple of OCs
Notes: Due to one small, seemingly trivial remark that Pepper made in a previous piece I wrote about her, I've decided to give her a bit of her own medicine. As per your request, refche, this takes place in a foreign country. Unfortunately, it is an English-speaking one. Therefore, I must heartily beg your pardon! Here's wishing you the happiest of holidays.
Summary: There's nothing worse than Christmas Night insomnia in an unfamiliar house-unless you've got somebody to share it with.
Any minute now, Pepper thought, drawing the scratchy wool blanket even tighter around herself. Any minute now, the Ghost of Christmas Present is going to appear and confirm exactly how pants this is. And he won't offer me any sleeping pills, either. She wrapped both hands around the rough stoneware mug and took a sullen sip of her chamomile tea. She didn't feel sleepy yet, and the stuff tasted wretched.
Pepper blinked at the multi-colored fairy lights garlanding the Christmas tree-the scent of pine pitch made her sneeze every once in a while-until she saw spots. Marianne had insisted she'd get used to it, and then, with a huge yawn and a slow-motion kiss pressed squarely to Pepper's lips, had slipped out of Pepper's arms, off the sofa, and up the rickety wooden staircase. Everything that she had ever heard about old New England houses was true: they were dusty, drafty, and their inhabitants seemed blissfully unaware of both of these facts.
Marianne's mother, Cleo-not Mrs. Bell, although Pepper was having a hard time thinking of her as anything else-had come down about an hour ago and draped the blanket across Pepper's shoulders, told her she could help herself to tea, kissed the top of her head, and went back to bed. She hadn't expected such kindness. In spite of Marianne's reassurances, she'd been expecting a frosty reception on account of all the nightmare stories she'd heard about homophobia in the U.S. Sure, the U.K. wasn't perfect, but the legal situation was considerably better. If they lasted another year or so, the government would let Marianne stay as Pepper's partner, no questions asked. They wouldn't even have to officially get married. Pepper wrinkled her nose. Who needed marriage, or domestic partnership, for that matter, to prove anything? She despised paperwork.
Visa applications are paperwork, Pepper reminded herself. You'll have to help Marianne deal with that.
Pepper curled in on herself, sinking lower into the couch cushions. Mrs. Bell-Cleo-was one of those sweet, batty artistic types that reminded her partly of her own mother and partly of Anathema. Pepper couldn't hate her for anything, much though one was supposed to dislike one's in-laws. In fact, Cleo was the only in-law Pepper would ever have to worry about. Marianne's father had died in a snowmobile accident when Marianne was twelve. It was a strange thought, that snow could kill anyone. The worst it ever did was bring London to a standstill for one day out of the year, or make Adam pelt her with pathetic snowballs all the way down the lane.
“Miss you, mate,” Pepper whispered. “You'd help me make sense of all this.” Her eyes lingered over the crystal beadwork angel that topped off the tree. Its head met the ceiling at an awkward angle, neck bent, giving the whole set-up a graceless, uncertain look.
Adam, the wanker, had actually been invited to Maine along with Pepper-but he'd begged off on the grounds of wanting to meet his sister's new baby boy. Pepper sincerely hoped that little Quentin was worth missing out on such weird American holiday traditions as watching The Grinch Who Stole Christmas and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which were clearly designed to entertain children and badly out of date, on telly.
As for Brian and Wensleydale, neither one had a passport. Brian couldn't seem to be arsed, and Wensleydale insisted that his mum didn't want him running off anywhere until he'd finished uni. Well, that was fair enough. They were all in their third year-Marianne included, having come to England as an international student. Pepper hadn't thought of Cambridge as the sort of place one might meet girls, but sure enough, she'd dated two others before Marianne came along.
“Life's funny like that,” said Aziraphale, casually adjusting a homemade snowflake ornament. He stood beside the tree, as if he'd always been there, perfectly still except for his fingers.
“I suppose you're making the rounds,” Pepper said, tucking her bare legs up under the blanket. “Happy Christmas. I'd make you some tea, but I don't think you'd like it. Funny like what?”
Aziraphale smiled and crossed the room, and then took a seat beside Pepper on the sofa. “Like what you were just thinking,” he said. “Bad television programs. University. Finding love.”
Pepper grinned into the mug in spite of herself. She leaned towards Aziraphale until her shoulder bumped his, just hard enough to chide, yet light enough to remain fond. “Where's your beautiful boy, then?” she asked.
The angel sighed. “At home, asleep. I don't doubt you'll see Crowley when you return.”
“A week from now,” Pepper muttered. “It's so cold here. And I'm going to gain a stone.”
“My dear, it'll hardly show. You're skin and bone.” Aziraphale put an arm around her. “And I would advise eating your fill, especially with so many wholesome home-baked goods about.”
Pepper snorted into the angel's coat, which smelled of lavender and a hint of tobacco smoke. “I'd rather have some sticky toffee pudding. Mum always makes it at Christmas.”
“Ah, yes,” murmured Aziraphale, regarding the tree thoughtfully, as if he couldn't disagree.
They sat in silence for what felt like ages while Pepper finished her tea. Aziraphale was solid and comforting in much the same way that Pepper's grandfather had been while he was still alive. She leaned into the angel's warmth until it seemed to envelop her. She drifted.
“Tell her I'm sorry,” Adam said, cradling a tiny bundle in his lap. Quentin reached up with one spindly arm, grasping his uncle's thumb. “I know it was important. She wanted me to be there.”
“I think she'll understand,” said Aziraphale, peering down at the infant. “I hope you won't be offended if I say so, but he looks no more like you than your sister does. There's more of his grandmother in him, wouldn't you say?”
“No offense taken,” Adam said, half smiling. “And yeah, he looks a bit like Mum, all right.”
Pepper woke with a start. “Adam? It's all-” Oh.
Marianne smoothed Pepper's short hair. “You were dreaming.”
Pepper blinked at Marianne, who sat exactly where she was absolutely certain...
“Yes,” she said. “About Adam, who wouldn't come spend Christmas with us. Traitor.”
Marianne laughed. “I think that a new nephew trumps your best friend's girlfriend's family.”
“I suppose so,” Pepper sighed, settling back against Marianne's shoulder. “I was about to tell him it was all right. I dreamed I saw him holding the baby. He'll be a perfect, terrifying uncle.”
“No kidding,” said Marianne. “Now, are you coming to bed, or are you waiting up for Santa?”
“Bed,” Pepper said, grinning. “I think I slept through the big event anyway.”
If Marianne had noticed the new box under the tree, which bore a card addressed to both of them in Adam's curiously neat handwriting, she didn't say a word as they retreated up the stairs.
Written for: refche
Written by: Irisbleufic
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Pepper, Aziraphale, and a couple of OCs
Notes: Due to one small, seemingly trivial remark that Pepper made in a previous piece I wrote about her, I've decided to give her a bit of her own medicine. As per your request, refche, this takes place in a foreign country. Unfortunately, it is an English-speaking one. Therefore, I must heartily beg your pardon! Here's wishing you the happiest of holidays.
Summary: There's nothing worse than Christmas Night insomnia in an unfamiliar house-unless you've got somebody to share it with.
Any minute now, Pepper thought, drawing the scratchy wool blanket even tighter around herself. Any minute now, the Ghost of Christmas Present is going to appear and confirm exactly how pants this is. And he won't offer me any sleeping pills, either. She wrapped both hands around the rough stoneware mug and took a sullen sip of her chamomile tea. She didn't feel sleepy yet, and the stuff tasted wretched.
Pepper blinked at the multi-colored fairy lights garlanding the Christmas tree-the scent of pine pitch made her sneeze every once in a while-until she saw spots. Marianne had insisted she'd get used to it, and then, with a huge yawn and a slow-motion kiss pressed squarely to Pepper's lips, had slipped out of Pepper's arms, off the sofa, and up the rickety wooden staircase. Everything that she had ever heard about old New England houses was true: they were dusty, drafty, and their inhabitants seemed blissfully unaware of both of these facts.
Marianne's mother, Cleo-not Mrs. Bell, although Pepper was having a hard time thinking of her as anything else-had come down about an hour ago and draped the blanket across Pepper's shoulders, told her she could help herself to tea, kissed the top of her head, and went back to bed. She hadn't expected such kindness. In spite of Marianne's reassurances, she'd been expecting a frosty reception on account of all the nightmare stories she'd heard about homophobia in the U.S. Sure, the U.K. wasn't perfect, but the legal situation was considerably better. If they lasted another year or so, the government would let Marianne stay as Pepper's partner, no questions asked. They wouldn't even have to officially get married. Pepper wrinkled her nose. Who needed marriage, or domestic partnership, for that matter, to prove anything? She despised paperwork.
Visa applications are paperwork, Pepper reminded herself. You'll have to help Marianne deal with that.
Pepper curled in on herself, sinking lower into the couch cushions. Mrs. Bell-Cleo-was one of those sweet, batty artistic types that reminded her partly of her own mother and partly of Anathema. Pepper couldn't hate her for anything, much though one was supposed to dislike one's in-laws. In fact, Cleo was the only in-law Pepper would ever have to worry about. Marianne's father had died in a snowmobile accident when Marianne was twelve. It was a strange thought, that snow could kill anyone. The worst it ever did was bring London to a standstill for one day out of the year, or make Adam pelt her with pathetic snowballs all the way down the lane.
“Miss you, mate,” Pepper whispered. “You'd help me make sense of all this.” Her eyes lingered over the crystal beadwork angel that topped off the tree. Its head met the ceiling at an awkward angle, neck bent, giving the whole set-up a graceless, uncertain look.
Adam, the wanker, had actually been invited to Maine along with Pepper-but he'd begged off on the grounds of wanting to meet his sister's new baby boy. Pepper sincerely hoped that little Quentin was worth missing out on such weird American holiday traditions as watching The Grinch Who Stole Christmas and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which were clearly designed to entertain children and badly out of date, on telly.
As for Brian and Wensleydale, neither one had a passport. Brian couldn't seem to be arsed, and Wensleydale insisted that his mum didn't want him running off anywhere until he'd finished uni. Well, that was fair enough. They were all in their third year-Marianne included, having come to England as an international student. Pepper hadn't thought of Cambridge as the sort of place one might meet girls, but sure enough, she'd dated two others before Marianne came along.
“Life's funny like that,” said Aziraphale, casually adjusting a homemade snowflake ornament. He stood beside the tree, as if he'd always been there, perfectly still except for his fingers.
“I suppose you're making the rounds,” Pepper said, tucking her bare legs up under the blanket. “Happy Christmas. I'd make you some tea, but I don't think you'd like it. Funny like what?”
Aziraphale smiled and crossed the room, and then took a seat beside Pepper on the sofa. “Like what you were just thinking,” he said. “Bad television programs. University. Finding love.”
Pepper grinned into the mug in spite of herself. She leaned towards Aziraphale until her shoulder bumped his, just hard enough to chide, yet light enough to remain fond. “Where's your beautiful boy, then?” she asked.
The angel sighed. “At home, asleep. I don't doubt you'll see Crowley when you return.”
“A week from now,” Pepper muttered. “It's so cold here. And I'm going to gain a stone.”
“My dear, it'll hardly show. You're skin and bone.” Aziraphale put an arm around her. “And I would advise eating your fill, especially with so many wholesome home-baked goods about.”
Pepper snorted into the angel's coat, which smelled of lavender and a hint of tobacco smoke. “I'd rather have some sticky toffee pudding. Mum always makes it at Christmas.”
“Ah, yes,” murmured Aziraphale, regarding the tree thoughtfully, as if he couldn't disagree.
They sat in silence for what felt like ages while Pepper finished her tea. Aziraphale was solid and comforting in much the same way that Pepper's grandfather had been while he was still alive. She leaned into the angel's warmth until it seemed to envelop her. She drifted.
“Tell her I'm sorry,” Adam said, cradling a tiny bundle in his lap. Quentin reached up with one spindly arm, grasping his uncle's thumb. “I know it was important. She wanted me to be there.”
“I think she'll understand,” said Aziraphale, peering down at the infant. “I hope you won't be offended if I say so, but he looks no more like you than your sister does. There's more of his grandmother in him, wouldn't you say?”
“No offense taken,” Adam said, half smiling. “And yeah, he looks a bit like Mum, all right.”
Pepper woke with a start. “Adam? It's all-” Oh.
Marianne smoothed Pepper's short hair. “You were dreaming.”
Pepper blinked at Marianne, who sat exactly where she was absolutely certain...
“Yes,” she said. “About Adam, who wouldn't come spend Christmas with us. Traitor.”
Marianne laughed. “I think that a new nephew trumps your best friend's girlfriend's family.”
“I suppose so,” Pepper sighed, settling back against Marianne's shoulder. “I was about to tell him it was all right. I dreamed I saw him holding the baby. He'll be a perfect, terrifying uncle.”
“No kidding,” said Marianne. “Now, are you coming to bed, or are you waiting up for Santa?”
“Bed,” Pepper said, grinning. “I think I slept through the big event anyway.”
If Marianne had noticed the new box under the tree, which bore a card addressed to both of them in Adam's curiously neat handwriting, she didn't say a word as they retreated up the stairs.