Well, well, can you believe it's that time of year yet again? Where the hell has 2012 gone, that's what I'd like to know. It seems like I was complaining I wanted my 2010 back only last month... o.O

So, slightly different set-up to last year, which had one-shots from allsorts of WWII AUs and quasi-AUs; this year all the fics are set in the same continuity as 1912, a fic I wrote in April focusing on the maiden voyage of the RMS Titanic. 1912 was canon, more or less, rather than a retelling-of-the-James-Cameron-film-with-Arthur-and-Alfred-replacing-Rose-and-Jack and focused as much on the complacent and arrogant world that produced the Titanic and her tragedy as it did on the ship herself (bear in mind this was the world that changed forever two years later when WWI broke out). Although it was canon, I enjoyed writing the angle 1912 took and decided to revisit the universe for this year's Christmas countdown. With that said, you don't neccessarilyhave to have read 1912 to make sense of these stories. In many ways, this collection - which ascends up to WWII in chronological order - speaks for itself.

I hope. :3

1720

"The story, Arthur," Alfred insisted, tugging at Arthur's arm as he trotted alongside him. "The one about the magical old man in Europe who brings gifts to good children!"

"Oh, that. It's just something Gilbert told me - a German tradition. I believe the Dutch celebrate it too."

"I like it," Alfred said earnestly. "Tell me again, Arthur!"

"Very well - but you must take my hand and not let go. I shouldn't want you to slip."

Alfred, who had been skipping ahead to crack every last thin skin of ice between cobblestones, obediently reached up to put his small gloved hand into Arthur's, hanging on tight. It was Christmas Eve, a frosty late afternoon with the sun beginning to slink away behind Boston's buildings, the sky painted with chilled purples, and they were bundled up against the cold in thick furs and soft suedes. This was a habit of theirs - an afternoon stroll into the town for idle pleasantry - and the time of year (nor date) made little difference to their errand. Alfred was energetic and wild and the walk helped to tire him out; and besides, he liked to see the ships at their moorings in the harbour and the things in the shop windows, toys and clothes and fresh-baked loaves of bread.

Alfred started to paw at Arthur's pocket as they walked past the lit shops towards the new Massachusetts Town House.

"What on earth are you doing?" Arthur asked quizzically, looking down at him.

"Looking for the sweeties." Alfred stopped and stood on his tip-toes to rifle thoroughly in the pocket of Arthur's fur-lined frock coat. "Did you hide them from me?"

"Yes. If I give them to you, you won't eat your dinner."

"I only want one!" Alfred held up precisely one finger to enunciate this. "One sweetie, please, Arthur."

Arthur arched his eyebrows.

"And you want the story too, I expect."

"Of course!" Alfred looked up at him with big eyes, his hand open in expectation.

Since taking in Alfred and dedicating himself to the role of a parent - rather than the parts, like soldier or pirate, that he knew how to play very well - Arthur had discovered something about himself: he was very bad at arguing with children. It was clear that he would have to wait until Alfred grew to be at least the same height as him before he could learn to tell him no; for as it stood, Commodore Arthur Kirkland, renowned privateer, once Drake's equal for Elizabeth's affections, merciless king of the high seas, was wrapped around this brat's little finger.

Grumbling to himself, Arthur wrested the folded paper from his inner pocket and held it out; within its rustling folds were bright shards of coloured rock sugar, over which Alfred deliberated with great care before selecting a red one. He popped it into his mouth and then held up a yellow one for Arthur, who had to stoop to take it.

"When are you going to grow taller, sprout?" he grumbled around the burst of sugar; they were an expensive treat, reserved for this time of year alongside chocolates and spiced cake.

Alfred merely stuck his tongue out at him, already stained red. Arthur sighed and put the sweets away, holding out his hand again. Alfred put his little one into it once more and they carried on their way down the frosted street aglitter in the late afternoon sun. It was very cold and crisp and Arthur expected snow.

"The story, Arthur!" Alfred demanded again, half-skipping to match his steps. "Or we shall be home before you tell it!"

"Oh, very well." Arthur smiled fondly at him. "Though Gilbert tells it better than I."

To European children, it was nothing new: the tale of St Nicholas and his flying white horse who filled the shoes of good children with treats and small toys on the evening of December 6th. Even the English, who did not observe it, as such, knew the story: but Alfred found it fascinating and asked many questions about the kindly old man and his wondrous steed, many of which Arthur had no answer to.

"But how does he go to every house in Germany and Holland all in one night?" he inquired; they were away from Boston now, treading the flattened path between the tall, naked black birches with their silver-skinned branches, the moon beginning to rise through the mist.

"He must be a fairy, is my conclusion," Arthur replied. "Time for fairies is different to that of men."

"I shall leave out my shoes and hope he comes," Alfred decided, "and wait up for him to ask."

"I'm afraid you are too late this year," Arthur said gently. "His night is December 6th - not Christmas Eve. Really, the two are not related."

"Oh." Alfred looked glum for all of three seconds. "Then next year I shall wait for him!" He tugged Arthur's sleeve. "Do you think he would teach me how to fly, too?"

"Perhaps if you asked him nicely enough." Arthur looked down at him, his green eyes bright and mischievous. "Though be warned, for if he is a fairy, he might might whisk you away forever to travel in ageless youth by his side."

The deepness of Boston's untamed woodland seemed to echo now, for Alfred drew closer to Arthur's side, away from the black edges of the wilderness.

"You would not let that happen, would you?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, would you not want that?" Arthur teased. "I thought you should like the adventure, flying all over the world by night?"

"Not forever," Alfred said. "Not unless you could come too, Arthur."

"I don't think old Nick would allow that. I expect I'm too old for him to bother with."

"Then I shan't go - not even if he promises me all the sweets and toys he has in his workshop!" Alfred said vehemently, clinging to Arthur's arm. "I want to stay with you forever!"

Arthur said nothing to this, pausing to look down at the child all but wrapped around him; Alfred had his eyes squeezed shut, fiercely clutching at him. Arthur carded his gloved hand through the boy's pale hair before bending down to lift him, taking him into his arms. Alfred nuzzled into him, the tip of his little nose cold against his neck.

"I did not intend to frighten you," Arthur said quietly, beginning to walk again. His breath clouded around his words and the brittle soil crunched underfoot, his steps echoing. They were completely alone on the moonlit road. "There is nothing to fear, especially not on this night. And besides..." He felt the child cuddle into the thick fur of his collar. "...I have you. You are safe."

Tonight was a night to spend in front of the fire; and tomorrow they would descend the frosted path once more in their best clothes to the Anglican church (never Puritan - Arthur disliked their ways, being a dabbler in decadence) for the Christmas service. All would be bright and new, fresh-laden with the snow that would fall in the blackest night-

But for now they swept in silence through the frost, deeper still into the untamed heart of the colonies with naught but the promise of borrowed tradition to light their way home.