A Holiday Thing
Rose sighed; Peter wanted to spend the New Year at his house in Kendal, wanted her to come up a week early so they could have two weeks together, uninterrupted, before Twelfth Night. He broached the subject during one of his visits, as they lay in bed together in the soft morning light.
“You...don’t have to...” Peter’s voice was uncertain; he must have sensed her hesitation.
“’s not that, Peter.” She turned to him, propping herself on her arm, her other hand resting on his bare chest. “’s just...it’s Christmas week.”
“But Christmas...it’s a religious holiday.”
He looked confused, and she elaborated. “Where I’m from...we celebrate Christmas. Not Twelfth Night. The twenty-fifth of December, we would make dinner, exchange gifts; it was the best holiday of the year.” She rested her head on her hand, looking at him, and earnestly described what Christmas was like: Father Christmas and tinsel and faerie lights and a tree in the living room. Peter crossed his arms under his head as he listened, his eyes never leaving her face.
“But it’s just one day,” he’d finally said, once she she’d finished.
“But it’s not, really. It’s the whole season--weeks of parties and shopping and carols. Mum used to pull the decorations out the first day of December, and we’d take the first weekend and spend it decorating and going to the shops. We used to have to store the presents in other people’s flats because we were so terrible about snooping.” Rose grinned. “Mum still does the house up-drove Pete mad the first year. He’d never admit it, but he loves it as much as Mum does now.”
“Will you come up though?”
Rose gazed at him thoughtfully. “Your birthday is Twelfth Night.”
“It is...” he replied slowly.
“Well, Christmas is the big holiday where I'm from, so we'll celebrate Christmas and view all Twelfth Night festivities as being in honour of your birthday. Have we a deal?” Peter couldn’t hide his surprise, and she leaned over, her bare torso coming into contact with his. “Kiss on it?” she asked softly.
They had-more than that, in fact-and so it was that she stood in his parlour four weeks later and broached the notion of a tree.
“You...want what, again?” Peter’s voice was disbelieving, his eyebrows arched into his hairline.
“A tree. For tomorrow.”
“You want to...cut down a tree? And stick it in the house? And then...what are we doing with it after that? And won't it make a mess?"
“It’s part of Christmas, Peter,” Rose’s voice was soft, pleading.
He held her gaze and sighed. “What do I have to do?”
What he had to do involved dressing for the cold, driving to the country, hiking through the woods, and spending an hour looking at poor, unsuspecting evergreens, trying to determine which one to slaughter to make Rose happy. The woman he loved was laughing merrily, her cheeks pink as they walked between trees. She was intent on finding one that wasn’t too tall, wasn’t too bushy; she sighed in resignation as she realized she’d have no joy in finding one that was triangle-shaped.
She finally selected one, and he dutifully fought his way through the branches to chop it down with the small garden tools he’d brought along. She was beaming when the tree finally fell; she ran over and kissed him soundly, and the tree hunt suddenly felt like less of a chore.
As they carried the tree through the woods to the car, she regaled him with a story about the year the Christmas tree came to life and tried to kill her, her mum, Mickey, and the Doctor. He eyed the evergreen in his hands warily, convinced he’d not be able to sleep soundly with the tree in his parlour. They tied their victim to the top of the car, Rose patiently explaining that the trunk had to be positioned towards the bonnet so their kill wouldn’t open like a demented umbrella, and he pulled the rope as snug as possible. He didn’t want the tree to add “umbrella-ing” to his list of sins when it came to life and sought revenge.
Rose was bouncing with excitement as he drove back to his house; he ruefully wondered what the townspeople must think as they saw him drive by with a fir strapped to the roof. That assumed, of course, that the townspeople could be surprised at all anymore after the shock of figuring out that he was dating that Rose Tyler. All the same, he was grateful none of the neighbours were about to witness them pull up in front of his house and drag the tree through his front door
Rose found a pail, liberated some bricks and gravel from Peter’s back garden, and spent another hour creating a system to keep the tree both watered and upright. It seemed a terrible amount of bother for something so transient, but Rose was determined that the tree would be present, and well cared for. As she stepped away, though, finally satisfied, he had to admit that it did liven the parlour up a bit.
“Mum had Pete get someone to build a proper stand. I s’pose I’ll have to get one of my own made now,” she said, eyes sparkling as she looked at him.
He smiled and shook his head in resignation. Loving Rose, being with her, apparently meant he’d be celebrating “Christmas” from here on out. He wondered how he’d manage to justify requesting the day off from work each year. “Non-traditional holiday observances” might have to do it.
Faerie lights were something she’d been able to find, easily, and she bedecked the tree in two strands. He was worried about the fire hazard-surely putting lights on a dying tree would lead to fire at some point-but she reassured him that so long as he kept the bucket full of water, and only turned the lights on when he was home, he’d not start a bonfire eleven months early.
At some point since they’d talked about her visiting for Twelfth Night she’d made some paper chains out of coloured paper. Now she pulled him over to the tree and coaxed him into helping her string the decoration along the branches.
“I think I’m done,” she finally said, standing beside him. He stared at the tree in front of him; it was colourful and bright, but the appeal still eluded him.
“Right,” he said dubiously.
She leaned up and kissed him; he returned her kiss eagerly.
“I think…maybe...a shower...” she whispered in between kisses.
“Are you going to join me?” he replied against her lips.
She pulled back. “Mmm...maybe if you drew a bath...” She drifted a hand down the centre of his chest, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
He kissed her once more, a promise of what awaited her upstairs. “Consider it done.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“So your parents do this every year, then?” Peter asked softly, his breath ghosting over her cheek. He brushed a light kiss over her ear, his arms enfolding her, as she leaned against him in the warm water.
“I try not to think about whether my parents do this.”
Peter laughed. “I don’t mean this. I mean Christmas.”
“Mm hm,” she replied, relaxing in his embrace.
“I bet Pete loved it, that first year.”
He felt her chuckle. “Took some getting used to, but he seems to now. Mum goes crazy, decorating ‘n stuff. John loves it, ‘course. Pete celebrates Twelfth Night, too, so John gets double presents.” Rose sighed happily as his hands lightly traced over her slick skin.
He brushed a trail of light kisses along her shoulder, and they sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sound that of the bubbles slowly dissolving.
“Did your family celebrate Twelfth Night?” Rose finally asked, turning slightly to look up at him.
“Of course. I can remember Mum garlanding the house, holly and hemlock everywhere. And twelve candles, lined up along the mantle; Martin nearly burned the house down the year before she...” He paused, not wanting to go down that particular path. “She loved it; Dad couldn’t bear to celebrate it after, not really.”
Rose brought his hand up out of the water, lightly kissed it. As always when he talked about his childhood, his family, she simply listened. She’d told him, once, that every time he shared his boyhood with her, that he was giving her something precious; that she knew he wasn’t used to sharing, but she cherished it because it was a part of what made him him. She was always careful to make him realize that she understood what a gift his openness was, made sure to be open and accepting and supportive and anything and everything he might need, and it was just one of the thousands of reasons he loved her so dearly.
“Nana would sneak us gifts, but it wasn’t the same.” He couldn’t hide the melancholy in his voice as he remembered visiting his gran’s cottage, the happiness he’d feel as someone smiled at him, hugged him-let him know that he was remembered and cherished, and more than just a walking reminder of his dead mum.
“Didn’t...didn’t they at least do something for your birthday?”
He sighed, and leaned his head back. “No. Same day as the holiday-it was the holiday in my dad’s mind. And Martin...well, I suppose it never occurred to him.” He raised his head, adding, “Nana would find a way to gift me an extra sweet, but that was about it.” He could hear how tired he sounded, and he felt Rose squeeze his hands as she turned once more to look at him.
“You deserve to have your birthday celebrated. Properly.” She smiled up at him before facing forward and once more leaning against his chest. She lifted his hand out of the water again, and began to play with his fingers; he felt his stomach tighten, heat pooling low in him at her touch, and his other hand began to drift along her ribs. She shifted, a soft sound of contentment leaving her lips, before she added as an afterthought, “We need to get mistletoe.”
“For my birthday?”
“For tomorrow, actually.”
“Mistletoe. But...it’s poisonous.” He couldn’t fathom what purpose the plant would serve.
She laughed, her body rubbing against his in a delicious way. He felt his cock begin to stir, his mind moving rapidly from wondering about mistletoe to thinking of ways to make her moan against his lips.
“You put it up over the doorway; if you’re caught standing under it, you have to kiss.” Rose paused, then added, “It’s an excuse to kiss, really.”
Peter tilted his head forward, whispering in her ear, “Do we need an excuse to kiss?”
She turned, murmuring against his lips, “No.”
He leaned forward, captured her mouth with his, and gave himself over to the sheer joy of kissing Rose, in the bath, their naked bodies against each other. He could feel himself hardening, and his hands drifted slowly across her skin, one hand seeking a breast, the other the warmth between her legs. She shifted, moaning as one hand began to gently work at the taut peak of her breast; he slid his fingers down through the coarse hair at the join of her thighs, further down until Rose gasped against him.
She leaned back against him, her hips shifting to push against his hand as he slowly worked to bring her to completion. He could feel the tension in her body as she neared release; felt her fingers clenching at his thighs as she spiralled higher and higher. “I love you, Rose. So very, very much,” he whispered against her ear, his heart thundering through his chest. She whispered his name, her muscles convulsing around his fingers as her orgasm washed over her, and he continued to whisper to her, telling her of how she made him feel.
As Rose relaxed against him, catching her breath as she came down from the endorphion high, Peter slowly moved his hands to her waist. He closed his eyes, content to breathe in the scent of her skin, to feel her pressed against him and enfolded in his embrace; not for the first time, he wondered how he’d come to deserve such a gift. She loved him-she’d told him so several times-but he still found himself surprised that a woman like Rose wanted to be with him, considered herself lucky to be with him.
He felt Rose shift, and opened his eyes to find her looking at him; he felt his breath catch at the gleam in her eye, and once more felt his erection twitch. She felt it, too, a slow smile appearing as she reached up to stroke his cheek. “Let’s shift places, Peter.” Her voice was low, throaty, and he found himself leaning down to kiss her.
She returned his kiss eagerly, before pulling back with a grin. “C’mon, you. I can’t touch you properly this way.”
They shifted with practiced ease, and he leaned back against Rose’s chest with a contented sigh. The bubbles were completely gone from the surface of the bath, and he watched as her hand slowly slid downwards from his stomach, her fingers teasing him by playing with the hair around the base of his penis, before lightly wrapping around his shaft.
He groaned, his eyes closing and his head tilting backwards against her shoulder as she began to gently stroke him. As her hand moved up and down, setting the rhythm she knew he enjoyed, her tongue lightly danced along his neck. He felt the orgasm build within him, the combination of the delicious sensation of her stroking him, her mouth against his skin, and her body supporting him serving to stoke the fire growing within him. As her hand tightened gently around him, speeding up as she worked him, she moved her mouth to his ear, her lips gently tugging at his earlobe.
He felt himself grow harder, felt the first wave of orgasm crash through him, and heard Rose whisper against his ear, “Come for me, my love.” He pressed into her hand, felt her squeeze him as he pulsed in her palm.
“Rose,” he gasped, breathless as the wave of pleasure receded. She released him, her hand moving up to his chin; she turned his face towards hers and kissed him gently.
“I love you, Peter,” she whispered against his lips. He kissed her softly in return before a grin overspread his features.
“Is this part of Christmas celebrations, then?”
She laughed. “I think so, yes.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Rose awoke early the next morning; it was Christmas, and not even living in a world that didn’t celebrate it had managed to dampen her love for the holiday. Peter was still asleep, curled on his side next to her, snoring softly. Any other morning she would have lain in bed and simply stared at him; how his dark eyelashes splayed across his fair cheeks, how red his lips became in sleep-how young he looked when he was so relaxed. But on Christmas morning...she needed to get up, needed to sneak downstairs and lay out his gift. She slid out of bed, being careful not to disturb him; she gently pulled the duvet up and over his chest, nicked his robe from where it hung on the corner of the wardrobe, and tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs.
The tree was twinkling merrily in the corner of the parlour, the faerie lights providing a warm glow in the chilly morning light. The paper chain John had helped her to assemble added a festive feel to the tree, and she sighed happily as she contemplated it. Peter really had been a good sport, in spite of clearly not understanding why she was so adamant about having a tree; she’d made sure, the night before, to kiss each red line that marked where the tree had scratched him the day before.
She and her mum had made a bit of a tradition of watching “Meet Me in St. Louis” on Christmas Eve, and she found herself humming as she found the filled stocking she’d secreted away. As she moved across the room and, with a bit of jiggery-pokery, hung it from the mantle, she began to sing the words softly to herself.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the yuletide gay
From now on, our troubles will be miles away....
She continued singing quietly as she retrieved Peter’s present from a different hiding place, setting it under the tree. She stepped back, the lyrics slowly trailing off as she contemplated the small, gaily wrapped parcel; it looked so lonely under the tree by itself. She moved forward, picked it up, once more singing.
Through the years
We all will be together
If the fates allow...
She turned and was startled to see Peter standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, watching her quietly. He was still in his pyjama bottoms, his hair standing on end, and she felt her body respond to the intensity in his dark eyes.
“Happy Christmas, Peter,” she said, softly.
“Happy Christmas, Rose,” he replied. He pushed off the jamb, uncrossing his arms as he walked over to her. She felt her breath catch as he stopped in front of her and leaned down to kiss her. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against him; she brought her arms around his back, the present still clutched in her hand as he gently worked his mouth against hers.
After several minutes her hand started to cramp, and she pulled back breathlessly. He opened his eyes, a smirk curving the corners of his mouth. “Is that the appropriate Christmas greeting?” he asked, a dimple appearing in his cheek.
“It is now,” she replied, smiling at him. She leaned up and gave him a quick kiss before stepping away. “I was just putting this down...” She looked at the parcel in her hand indecisively and finally held it out to him.
He looked at it, raised his eyes to hers. “I didn’t get you anything.”
She shook her head, encouraging him to take it. “You didn’t have to get me anything. I wanted to get this for you.”
He stepped forward, taking it from her hand. “Thank you.” He took a step back. “Ah...am I allowed to make some cocoa and get the fire going? Or...is it traditional to open this immediately?”
“There’s no rule about it, Peter.” She gently removed the package from his hand, turned to place it on the mantle. “Why don’t you start the fire, and I’ll make the cocoa? I think even I can manage that without ruining your kitchen.”
He smiled, kissing her cheek. “Very well. Just don’t burn the milk.”
By the time she returned to the parlour, two mugs of cocoa in hand, he had a fire merrily dancing in the grate. He’d laid out a blanket on the floor in front of the hearth and was already seated on it, and she set the mugs down next to him. “Your cocoa, unscalded.” She winked at him before moving to collect his present and his stocking; she handed them to him before settling next to him.
“How does this work, then?” he asked as she took a sip of her cocoa.
Rose laughed. “It’s really rather like your Twelfth Night, you know-at least, according to Pete.” She reached for the stocking and handed it to him. “First, you open your stocking.”
He looked at it, amused, before reaching inside. “I don’t think these are part of the holiday,” he said, pulling his hand out of the stocking with his first find.
“That’s because you don’t have Father Christmas.”
“No, we don’t,” Peter replied distractedly, staring at the items in his hand. They were red-and-white swirled peppermint sticks, the closest thing Rose could find to candy canes. “Sweets?” he finally asked, looking to Rose for confirmation.
“Sweets,” she affirmed, smiling as Peter’s expression shifted to delight. Rose laughed as he slowly, excitedly, removed each sweet from the stocking, ending with a chocolate orange.
“You give children stockings full of sweets on Christmas?” Peter finally asked, looking at the bounty in front of him.
“Not always. You put small gifts in there-a little toy, or a plush animal, things like that. But the Satsuma-well, in your case, the chocolate orange-that’s always there. ’ s meant as a reminder of the money Saint Nicholas shared. We used to eat them straight away, Mum and I, hoping it would bring us luck in the New Year.”
Peter took one more look at the sweets in front of him before meeting Rose’s eye. “Thank you.”
She grinned. “You’re welcome.” Her gaze shifted to the gift sitting on the blanket next to him. “Now you open your present.”
Her voice had softened, and she once more met Peter’s gaze. He looked down, taking the gaily wrapped gift in his hands and turning it over tentatively. Her heart thudded in nervous anticipation.
He raised his eyes to hers, smiling impishly; his dimples briefly appeared as he slowly unwrapped the gift. His eyes widened as he realized it was a novella; he turned it over, and gasped as he saw the title.
“A Twelfth-Night’s Tale?” he whispered.
She nodded, excited. “First edition.”
Peter loved Dickens nearly as much as he loved old things, and Rose had kept those two things in mind when she’d started, months earlier, to look for something to give Peter on the holiday. When the bookseller had called a few weeks later, telling her he had a rare find she might be interested in, she knew she’d found Peter’s gift. While Rose had laughed the first time she’d heard what Dickens’ famous story was called in this world-indeed, she fought down a giggle every time she heard the title-she knew that it would mean a great deal to Peter.
She moved to sit beside him, leaning her arm against him. “You’re a right nightmare to shop for, you know. I finally found an antiquarian bookseller, told him what you liked. He kept an eye out for me.”
He glanced down at the book, and then back at her, speechless.
“You...you don’t already have it, do you? I tried to look, but you have so many books everywhere that I couldn’t be sure...”
He turned to her, his eyes moving from her lips to her eyes and back again. “A first edition ‘A Twelfth Night’s Tale?’ No, Rose-I don’t have one.” His voice was impossibly gentle.
She reached over and lightly cupped his jaw, stroking his cheek with her thumb. “It’s...I...” As they so often did when Peter was near, words escaped her. He smiled gently and leaned forward, his lips ghosting over hers, a whisper of a kiss. She leaned up into him, deepening it, her hand sliding around to glide through his hair.
He sighed, brushing light kisses over her face, before whispering against her ear, “Thank you, Rose.” His voice was awed.
“You’re quite welcome,” she whispered in response.
She was surprised when he pulled back suddenly. "What do you want for Christmas?" His voice had an underlying note of anxiety, and she gently ran her hand along his jaw in a soothing gesture.
"I...already have everything I could possibly want." She still had a hard time looking him in the eye when she said anything so deeply emotional, outside of bed; she skated her eyes to the side rather than hold the intense look he was giving her.
She took a moment, catching her breath, before she returned her gaze to his. He was smiling softly, an air of disbelief about him even as he broke into a full smile.
“What?” she asked, smiling.
“I haven’t a clue how I’ve been so lucky.”
She blushed and ducked her head. “Are you going to read that to me?”
He laughed. “I could do, if you like.”
“I’d like.” She met his eye again, smiling.
He grinned boyishly. Setting the book down carefully, he turned and moved the forgotten mugs of cocoa out of the way. He pulled two cushions out from under the coffee table--he’d started keeping them on the floor for their indoor picnics many, many months prior-and lay down, resting his head on them. Rose lay next to him, placing her head on his shoulder as her arm curled over his chest. He brushed a kiss over her hair, and brought the book up in front of him.
He opened it, found the first page, and began reading aloud. “Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that...”
~finis~
A/N: EGT’s request for this was to have Rose singing “Have yourself a merry little Christmas”.
“You...don’t have to...” Peter’s voice was uncertain; he must have sensed her hesitation.
“’s not that, Peter.” She turned to him, propping herself on her arm, her other hand resting on his bare chest. “’s just...it’s Christmas week.”
“But Christmas...it’s a religious holiday.”
He looked confused, and she elaborated. “Where I’m from...we celebrate Christmas. Not Twelfth Night. The twenty-fifth of December, we would make dinner, exchange gifts; it was the best holiday of the year.” She rested her head on her hand, looking at him, and earnestly described what Christmas was like: Father Christmas and tinsel and faerie lights and a tree in the living room. Peter crossed his arms under his head as he listened, his eyes never leaving her face.
“But it’s just one day,” he’d finally said, once she she’d finished.
“But it’s not, really. It’s the whole season--weeks of parties and shopping and carols. Mum used to pull the decorations out the first day of December, and we’d take the first weekend and spend it decorating and going to the shops. We used to have to store the presents in other people’s flats because we were so terrible about snooping.” Rose grinned. “Mum still does the house up-drove Pete mad the first year. He’d never admit it, but he loves it as much as Mum does now.”
“Will you come up though?”
Rose gazed at him thoughtfully. “Your birthday is Twelfth Night.”
“It is...” he replied slowly.
“Well, Christmas is the big holiday where I'm from, so we'll celebrate Christmas and view all Twelfth Night festivities as being in honour of your birthday. Have we a deal?” Peter couldn’t hide his surprise, and she leaned over, her bare torso coming into contact with his. “Kiss on it?” she asked softly.
They had-more than that, in fact-and so it was that she stood in his parlour four weeks later and broached the notion of a tree.
“You...want what, again?” Peter’s voice was disbelieving, his eyebrows arched into his hairline.
“A tree. For tomorrow.”
“You want to...cut down a tree? And stick it in the house? And then...what are we doing with it after that? And won't it make a mess?"
“It’s part of Christmas, Peter,” Rose’s voice was soft, pleading.
He held her gaze and sighed. “What do I have to do?”
What he had to do involved dressing for the cold, driving to the country, hiking through the woods, and spending an hour looking at poor, unsuspecting evergreens, trying to determine which one to slaughter to make Rose happy. The woman he loved was laughing merrily, her cheeks pink as they walked between trees. She was intent on finding one that wasn’t too tall, wasn’t too bushy; she sighed in resignation as she realized she’d have no joy in finding one that was triangle-shaped.
She finally selected one, and he dutifully fought his way through the branches to chop it down with the small garden tools he’d brought along. She was beaming when the tree finally fell; she ran over and kissed him soundly, and the tree hunt suddenly felt like less of a chore.
As they carried the tree through the woods to the car, she regaled him with a story about the year the Christmas tree came to life and tried to kill her, her mum, Mickey, and the Doctor. He eyed the evergreen in his hands warily, convinced he’d not be able to sleep soundly with the tree in his parlour. They tied their victim to the top of the car, Rose patiently explaining that the trunk had to be positioned towards the bonnet so their kill wouldn’t open like a demented umbrella, and he pulled the rope as snug as possible. He didn’t want the tree to add “umbrella-ing” to his list of sins when it came to life and sought revenge.
Rose was bouncing with excitement as he drove back to his house; he ruefully wondered what the townspeople must think as they saw him drive by with a fir strapped to the roof. That assumed, of course, that the townspeople could be surprised at all anymore after the shock of figuring out that he was dating that Rose Tyler. All the same, he was grateful none of the neighbours were about to witness them pull up in front of his house and drag the tree through his front door
Rose found a pail, liberated some bricks and gravel from Peter’s back garden, and spent another hour creating a system to keep the tree both watered and upright. It seemed a terrible amount of bother for something so transient, but Rose was determined that the tree would be present, and well cared for. As she stepped away, though, finally satisfied, he had to admit that it did liven the parlour up a bit.
“Mum had Pete get someone to build a proper stand. I s’pose I’ll have to get one of my own made now,” she said, eyes sparkling as she looked at him.
He smiled and shook his head in resignation. Loving Rose, being with her, apparently meant he’d be celebrating “Christmas” from here on out. He wondered how he’d manage to justify requesting the day off from work each year. “Non-traditional holiday observances” might have to do it.
Faerie lights were something she’d been able to find, easily, and she bedecked the tree in two strands. He was worried about the fire hazard-surely putting lights on a dying tree would lead to fire at some point-but she reassured him that so long as he kept the bucket full of water, and only turned the lights on when he was home, he’d not start a bonfire eleven months early.
At some point since they’d talked about her visiting for Twelfth Night she’d made some paper chains out of coloured paper. Now she pulled him over to the tree and coaxed him into helping her string the decoration along the branches.
“I think I’m done,” she finally said, standing beside him. He stared at the tree in front of him; it was colourful and bright, but the appeal still eluded him.
“Right,” he said dubiously.
She leaned up and kissed him; he returned her kiss eagerly.
“I think…maybe...a shower...” she whispered in between kisses.
“Are you going to join me?” he replied against her lips.
She pulled back. “Mmm...maybe if you drew a bath...” She drifted a hand down the centre of his chest, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
He kissed her once more, a promise of what awaited her upstairs. “Consider it done.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“So your parents do this every year, then?” Peter asked softly, his breath ghosting over her cheek. He brushed a light kiss over her ear, his arms enfolding her, as she leaned against him in the warm water.
“I try not to think about whether my parents do this.”
Peter laughed. “I don’t mean this. I mean Christmas.”
“Mm hm,” she replied, relaxing in his embrace.
“I bet Pete loved it, that first year.”
He felt her chuckle. “Took some getting used to, but he seems to now. Mum goes crazy, decorating ‘n stuff. John loves it, ‘course. Pete celebrates Twelfth Night, too, so John gets double presents.” Rose sighed happily as his hands lightly traced over her slick skin.
He brushed a trail of light kisses along her shoulder, and they sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sound that of the bubbles slowly dissolving.
“Did your family celebrate Twelfth Night?” Rose finally asked, turning slightly to look up at him.
“Of course. I can remember Mum garlanding the house, holly and hemlock everywhere. And twelve candles, lined up along the mantle; Martin nearly burned the house down the year before she...” He paused, not wanting to go down that particular path. “She loved it; Dad couldn’t bear to celebrate it after, not really.”
Rose brought his hand up out of the water, lightly kissed it. As always when he talked about his childhood, his family, she simply listened. She’d told him, once, that every time he shared his boyhood with her, that he was giving her something precious; that she knew he wasn’t used to sharing, but she cherished it because it was a part of what made him him. She was always careful to make him realize that she understood what a gift his openness was, made sure to be open and accepting and supportive and anything and everything he might need, and it was just one of the thousands of reasons he loved her so dearly.
“Nana would sneak us gifts, but it wasn’t the same.” He couldn’t hide the melancholy in his voice as he remembered visiting his gran’s cottage, the happiness he’d feel as someone smiled at him, hugged him-let him know that he was remembered and cherished, and more than just a walking reminder of his dead mum.
“Didn’t...didn’t they at least do something for your birthday?”
He sighed, and leaned his head back. “No. Same day as the holiday-it was the holiday in my dad’s mind. And Martin...well, I suppose it never occurred to him.” He raised his head, adding, “Nana would find a way to gift me an extra sweet, but that was about it.” He could hear how tired he sounded, and he felt Rose squeeze his hands as she turned once more to look at him.
“You deserve to have your birthday celebrated. Properly.” She smiled up at him before facing forward and once more leaning against his chest. She lifted his hand out of the water again, and began to play with his fingers; he felt his stomach tighten, heat pooling low in him at her touch, and his other hand began to drift along her ribs. She shifted, a soft sound of contentment leaving her lips, before she added as an afterthought, “We need to get mistletoe.”
“For my birthday?”
“For tomorrow, actually.”
“Mistletoe. But...it’s poisonous.” He couldn’t fathom what purpose the plant would serve.
She laughed, her body rubbing against his in a delicious way. He felt his cock begin to stir, his mind moving rapidly from wondering about mistletoe to thinking of ways to make her moan against his lips.
“You put it up over the doorway; if you’re caught standing under it, you have to kiss.” Rose paused, then added, “It’s an excuse to kiss, really.”
Peter tilted his head forward, whispering in her ear, “Do we need an excuse to kiss?”
She turned, murmuring against his lips, “No.”
He leaned forward, captured her mouth with his, and gave himself over to the sheer joy of kissing Rose, in the bath, their naked bodies against each other. He could feel himself hardening, and his hands drifted slowly across her skin, one hand seeking a breast, the other the warmth between her legs. She shifted, moaning as one hand began to gently work at the taut peak of her breast; he slid his fingers down through the coarse hair at the join of her thighs, further down until Rose gasped against him.
She leaned back against him, her hips shifting to push against his hand as he slowly worked to bring her to completion. He could feel the tension in her body as she neared release; felt her fingers clenching at his thighs as she spiralled higher and higher. “I love you, Rose. So very, very much,” he whispered against her ear, his heart thundering through his chest. She whispered his name, her muscles convulsing around his fingers as her orgasm washed over her, and he continued to whisper to her, telling her of how she made him feel.
As Rose relaxed against him, catching her breath as she came down from the endorphion high, Peter slowly moved his hands to her waist. He closed his eyes, content to breathe in the scent of her skin, to feel her pressed against him and enfolded in his embrace; not for the first time, he wondered how he’d come to deserve such a gift. She loved him-she’d told him so several times-but he still found himself surprised that a woman like Rose wanted to be with him, considered herself lucky to be with him.
He felt Rose shift, and opened his eyes to find her looking at him; he felt his breath catch at the gleam in her eye, and once more felt his erection twitch. She felt it, too, a slow smile appearing as she reached up to stroke his cheek. “Let’s shift places, Peter.” Her voice was low, throaty, and he found himself leaning down to kiss her.
She returned his kiss eagerly, before pulling back with a grin. “C’mon, you. I can’t touch you properly this way.”
They shifted with practiced ease, and he leaned back against Rose’s chest with a contented sigh. The bubbles were completely gone from the surface of the bath, and he watched as her hand slowly slid downwards from his stomach, her fingers teasing him by playing with the hair around the base of his penis, before lightly wrapping around his shaft.
He groaned, his eyes closing and his head tilting backwards against her shoulder as she began to gently stroke him. As her hand moved up and down, setting the rhythm she knew he enjoyed, her tongue lightly danced along his neck. He felt the orgasm build within him, the combination of the delicious sensation of her stroking him, her mouth against his skin, and her body supporting him serving to stoke the fire growing within him. As her hand tightened gently around him, speeding up as she worked him, she moved her mouth to his ear, her lips gently tugging at his earlobe.
He felt himself grow harder, felt the first wave of orgasm crash through him, and heard Rose whisper against his ear, “Come for me, my love.” He pressed into her hand, felt her squeeze him as he pulsed in her palm.
“Rose,” he gasped, breathless as the wave of pleasure receded. She released him, her hand moving up to his chin; she turned his face towards hers and kissed him gently.
“I love you, Peter,” she whispered against his lips. He kissed her softly in return before a grin overspread his features.
“Is this part of Christmas celebrations, then?”
She laughed. “I think so, yes.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Rose awoke early the next morning; it was Christmas, and not even living in a world that didn’t celebrate it had managed to dampen her love for the holiday. Peter was still asleep, curled on his side next to her, snoring softly. Any other morning she would have lain in bed and simply stared at him; how his dark eyelashes splayed across his fair cheeks, how red his lips became in sleep-how young he looked when he was so relaxed. But on Christmas morning...she needed to get up, needed to sneak downstairs and lay out his gift. She slid out of bed, being careful not to disturb him; she gently pulled the duvet up and over his chest, nicked his robe from where it hung on the corner of the wardrobe, and tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs.
The tree was twinkling merrily in the corner of the parlour, the faerie lights providing a warm glow in the chilly morning light. The paper chain John had helped her to assemble added a festive feel to the tree, and she sighed happily as she contemplated it. Peter really had been a good sport, in spite of clearly not understanding why she was so adamant about having a tree; she’d made sure, the night before, to kiss each red line that marked where the tree had scratched him the day before.
She and her mum had made a bit of a tradition of watching “Meet Me in St. Louis” on Christmas Eve, and she found herself humming as she found the filled stocking she’d secreted away. As she moved across the room and, with a bit of jiggery-pokery, hung it from the mantle, she began to sing the words softly to herself.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas
Make the yuletide gay
From now on, our troubles will be miles away....
She continued singing quietly as she retrieved Peter’s present from a different hiding place, setting it under the tree. She stepped back, the lyrics slowly trailing off as she contemplated the small, gaily wrapped parcel; it looked so lonely under the tree by itself. She moved forward, picked it up, once more singing.
Through the years
We all will be together
If the fates allow...
She turned and was startled to see Peter standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, watching her quietly. He was still in his pyjama bottoms, his hair standing on end, and she felt her body respond to the intensity in his dark eyes.
“Happy Christmas, Peter,” she said, softly.
“Happy Christmas, Rose,” he replied. He pushed off the jamb, uncrossing his arms as he walked over to her. She felt her breath catch as he stopped in front of her and leaned down to kiss her. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against him; she brought her arms around his back, the present still clutched in her hand as he gently worked his mouth against hers.
After several minutes her hand started to cramp, and she pulled back breathlessly. He opened his eyes, a smirk curving the corners of his mouth. “Is that the appropriate Christmas greeting?” he asked, a dimple appearing in his cheek.
“It is now,” she replied, smiling at him. She leaned up and gave him a quick kiss before stepping away. “I was just putting this down...” She looked at the parcel in her hand indecisively and finally held it out to him.
He looked at it, raised his eyes to hers. “I didn’t get you anything.”
She shook her head, encouraging him to take it. “You didn’t have to get me anything. I wanted to get this for you.”
He stepped forward, taking it from her hand. “Thank you.” He took a step back. “Ah...am I allowed to make some cocoa and get the fire going? Or...is it traditional to open this immediately?”
“There’s no rule about it, Peter.” She gently removed the package from his hand, turned to place it on the mantle. “Why don’t you start the fire, and I’ll make the cocoa? I think even I can manage that without ruining your kitchen.”
He smiled, kissing her cheek. “Very well. Just don’t burn the milk.”
By the time she returned to the parlour, two mugs of cocoa in hand, he had a fire merrily dancing in the grate. He’d laid out a blanket on the floor in front of the hearth and was already seated on it, and she set the mugs down next to him. “Your cocoa, unscalded.” She winked at him before moving to collect his present and his stocking; she handed them to him before settling next to him.
“How does this work, then?” he asked as she took a sip of her cocoa.
Rose laughed. “It’s really rather like your Twelfth Night, you know-at least, according to Pete.” She reached for the stocking and handed it to him. “First, you open your stocking.”
He looked at it, amused, before reaching inside. “I don’t think these are part of the holiday,” he said, pulling his hand out of the stocking with his first find.
“That’s because you don’t have Father Christmas.”
“No, we don’t,” Peter replied distractedly, staring at the items in his hand. They were red-and-white swirled peppermint sticks, the closest thing Rose could find to candy canes. “Sweets?” he finally asked, looking to Rose for confirmation.
“Sweets,” she affirmed, smiling as Peter’s expression shifted to delight. Rose laughed as he slowly, excitedly, removed each sweet from the stocking, ending with a chocolate orange.
“You give children stockings full of sweets on Christmas?” Peter finally asked, looking at the bounty in front of him.
“Not always. You put small gifts in there-a little toy, or a plush animal, things like that. But the Satsuma-well, in your case, the chocolate orange-that’s always there. ’ s meant as a reminder of the money Saint Nicholas shared. We used to eat them straight away, Mum and I, hoping it would bring us luck in the New Year.”
Peter took one more look at the sweets in front of him before meeting Rose’s eye. “Thank you.”
She grinned. “You’re welcome.” Her gaze shifted to the gift sitting on the blanket next to him. “Now you open your present.”
Her voice had softened, and she once more met Peter’s gaze. He looked down, taking the gaily wrapped gift in his hands and turning it over tentatively. Her heart thudded in nervous anticipation.
He raised his eyes to hers, smiling impishly; his dimples briefly appeared as he slowly unwrapped the gift. His eyes widened as he realized it was a novella; he turned it over, and gasped as he saw the title.
“A Twelfth-Night’s Tale?” he whispered.
She nodded, excited. “First edition.”
Peter loved Dickens nearly as much as he loved old things, and Rose had kept those two things in mind when she’d started, months earlier, to look for something to give Peter on the holiday. When the bookseller had called a few weeks later, telling her he had a rare find she might be interested in, she knew she’d found Peter’s gift. While Rose had laughed the first time she’d heard what Dickens’ famous story was called in this world-indeed, she fought down a giggle every time she heard the title-she knew that it would mean a great deal to Peter.
She moved to sit beside him, leaning her arm against him. “You’re a right nightmare to shop for, you know. I finally found an antiquarian bookseller, told him what you liked. He kept an eye out for me.”
He glanced down at the book, and then back at her, speechless.
“You...you don’t already have it, do you? I tried to look, but you have so many books everywhere that I couldn’t be sure...”
He turned to her, his eyes moving from her lips to her eyes and back again. “A first edition ‘A Twelfth Night’s Tale?’ No, Rose-I don’t have one.” His voice was impossibly gentle.
She reached over and lightly cupped his jaw, stroking his cheek with her thumb. “It’s...I...” As they so often did when Peter was near, words escaped her. He smiled gently and leaned forward, his lips ghosting over hers, a whisper of a kiss. She leaned up into him, deepening it, her hand sliding around to glide through his hair.
He sighed, brushing light kisses over her face, before whispering against her ear, “Thank you, Rose.” His voice was awed.
“You’re quite welcome,” she whispered in response.
She was surprised when he pulled back suddenly. "What do you want for Christmas?" His voice had an underlying note of anxiety, and she gently ran her hand along his jaw in a soothing gesture.
"I...already have everything I could possibly want." She still had a hard time looking him in the eye when she said anything so deeply emotional, outside of bed; she skated her eyes to the side rather than hold the intense look he was giving her.
She took a moment, catching her breath, before she returned her gaze to his. He was smiling softly, an air of disbelief about him even as he broke into a full smile.
“What?” she asked, smiling.
“I haven’t a clue how I’ve been so lucky.”
She blushed and ducked her head. “Are you going to read that to me?”
He laughed. “I could do, if you like.”
“I’d like.” She met his eye again, smiling.
He grinned boyishly. Setting the book down carefully, he turned and moved the forgotten mugs of cocoa out of the way. He pulled two cushions out from under the coffee table--he’d started keeping them on the floor for their indoor picnics many, many months prior-and lay down, resting his head on them. Rose lay next to him, placing her head on his shoulder as her arm curled over his chest. He brushed a kiss over her hair, and brought the book up in front of him.
He opened it, found the first page, and began reading aloud. “Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that...”
~finis~
A/N: EGT’s request for this was to have Rose singing “Have yourself a merry little Christmas”.