For idharao in the fandom_stocking exchange.
Oh, we ain't got a barrel of money
Maybe we're ragged and funny
But we'll travel along, singing a song,
Side by side.
The Christmas of 1935 was not shaping up to be a very good one for the Baker-Martin family. (Sherry had kept her name for stage purposes.) Connie and Bilge had so enjoyed their honeymoon sailing around various tropical isles in the Pacific that they had decided to extend it another two weeks, taking them right through the new year. Sherry couldn't blame them; the postcard Connie had sent her from Tahiti did make it sound as if she was having the time of her life, and the picture on the front was beautiful. But this was her first Christmas without her sister, and while Bake more than made up for it, she still missed her.
Furthermore, this was far from the greatest moment in her and Bake's collective financial histories. Rehearsals had been going on for three weeks for Mr. Nolan's new show, but they weren't going to be paid until the show opened, which wasn't until the sixth of January.
Rehearsals took up too much time for her to take on many substitute dancer jobs, and they had just about run through Bake's earnings from the Navy. They had enough, barely, to make the rent and put a meager amount of food on the table, but Christmas presents were entirely out of the question.
Bake had suggested wrapping the contents of their pantry in old newspapers for appearance's sake, but that was even more depressing than having nothing. She hadn't known this materialistic streak existed inside her, but it was their first Christmas as a married couple, and she'd wanted it to be memorable.
It was certainly one to remember, she thought sullenly as she stared at the Nativity set she had inherited from her mother, the one Christmas decoration they had put up this year. Just for all the wrong reasons. Lifting her eyes to the window, she sighed loudly. The San Francisco weather wasn't even doing them the courtesy of clearing up, and was instead sending cold drizzle down from a gray sky.
Bake, hearing her sigh, sat beside her on their little sofa and put his arm around her shoulders.
"Still upset about not having a real Christmas?" he asked.
"I know I shouldn't be," she said. "There are plenty of people out there who have it worse than we do. But..."
He squeezed her shoulders, then held out his hand. "Come on. I know something that'll cheer you up."
She took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. "What is it?"
"Well," he said, letting go of her hand and walking over to the record player to put one on the turntable, "the nice thing about living on the ground floor is that no one can complain about the noise if we want to cut a proverbial rug."
He dropped the needle on the last word, and a slow, sweet waltz began to play. "Bake," she said, feeling like she might cry.
"Shhh," he said, taking her in his arms and beginning to lead them in the graceful, sweeping movements—constrained somewhat by the limitations of their small apartment's living room—of the waltz. She knew from experience that he wouldn't dance her into a table or chair, and so she relaxed, ignoring proper posture and resting her head on his shoulder.
They spent half the day dancing in rehearsals for the show, but this was different—this time they were dancing only for themselves, and as themselves, not as characters in a musical. Over the past three months, she'd almost forgotten this simple pleasure.
She felt Bake lean his head down to whisper in her ear. "Aren't you glad you asked me to marry you?"
She might have swatted his shoulder at the outrageous arrogance of the statement, but she was enjoying this so much that she settled for rolling her eyes. "Merry Christmas, Bake," she said.
Brushing his lips against hers and forgetting all about the dancing, he murmured, "Merry Christmas, Sherry."