A/N: Merry Christmas, all! Or, for those of you that don't celebrate Christmas, happy holidays! :) I figured that I'd write a Dream Court Christmas AU—set in modern days, but with the same lovely characters, and with all our favorite ships. Enjoy!

And the Stars Were Shining Brightly

Feyre was not particularly in the mood for Rhys's bullshit that morning.

Not that she was ever in the mood for it, but as her boyfriend poked her in the shoulder repeatedly, with quick, efficient jabs, she thought that she might actually have to get the handgun from her bedside table and shoot him.

"Rhysand. I. Am. Sleeping."

"It's Christmas, Feyre. You have to get up."

She rolled over, cracking open one eye to glare at him. "Do I look like I particularly care?"

He huffed. "It's Christmas."

"Just repeating it doesn't make the words any different."

"What happened to make you so cold?"

"Oh, I don't know—wait, yes I do. My boyfriend woke me up at six am."

He grinned, dropping a kiss on her cheek. "I know that's probably supposed to instill some sort of guilt in me, but I'm just happy that you called me your boyfriend."

"Christ, Rhys. How old are you, fourteen?"

"Feyre. It's Christmas."

"So you've said."

"But it is."

She propped herself up on her elbow, glowering at him fiercely. "You know what? I take it back. You're two." She held up two fingers. "See? This many."

He kissed her cheek, ruffling her hair. She scowled, but she couldn't help a small smile sneaking onto her lips. She hated him—hated him. He was the worst.

She turned, picking up the alarm clock on their nightstand. "Six am?" she said, groaning. It was still dark outside; moonlight fell in dappled rays over the planks of their bedroom in their loft in Soho. "Jesus, Rhys. The rest aren't coming over for another two hours at least. And you know Cassian will be late."

"Ah-ah. Cassian has Nesta now."

She grimaced, slumping back against his familiar warmth. He pressed a kiss to her collarbone. "You suck. Just so you know."

"Come on. Didn't you ever get up early for presents as a kid?"

"Yeah, when I was like, five. Not twenty."

Rhys's hand snaked around her waist, his fingers tracing circles on her skin. "So grumpy."

She turned over on her back, brushing a few stray tendrils of black hair from Rhys's face. "You're lucky I love you. You know that, right?"

He buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Trust me, I know."

She glanced back over at the alarm clock. "Well, I'm up now."

"That's true."

"And we have some time."

Rhys's wicked smile sent shivers licking down her spine. "Very true."

She sighed. "I wonder… What will we do…"

"I could think of a few ideas…"

"That's it!" she cried, jumping up from her bed. The floorboards were cold as they caressed her feet. "We can make bread!"

He blinked at her, still half-wrapped in cotton sheets. "What?"

"I mean, since we're up this early, we can probably bake some homemade bread. I think we've got all the ingredients—yeast, and everything—"

"I—yeast?" he sputtered. Poor boy. She almost (almost) felt bad for him.

She grabbed her bathrobe from where it lay on the headboard and slid it on, tying the sash around her waist. "Come on, Rhys. Get dressed. Sun'll be up in… Oh, an hour or two."

He drooped, looking somewhat forlorn. "Feyre."

"Day's a-wasting, Rhys," she sang as she danced out of their bedroom, already heading for the kitchen.

Bread. She'd never made it before, but how hard could it be?

—

Nesta was going to smack Cassian.

"Get," she growled, "up."

He barely stirred. God. He was like a useless lump until ten o'clock in the morning. Normally, Nesta didn't even bother—she was too busy whipping him into shape in other departments—but today, he had to get up. They had to be at Rhysand and Feyre's by eight-thirty, and they were a half-hour drive away in their apartment in the Upper East Side. It was already seven-fifty.

She flattened her lips into a thin, furious white line. She was already showered, made-up, and dressed. She'd told Cassian—told him—that he had to be ready by seven-fifty as well. She'd set seven alarms for him.

He had turned every single one off.

"Cassian, I swear to every god to find holy, if you don't get your ass up right now, I will kick it from here to Utah."

He shifted a bit in the bed, mumbling, "Can't stop staring at my ass, Archeron?"

Oh. My. God.

She grabbed his ear, yanking him into an upright position. He yowled, squirming. "Let me go, woman!"

She did, but only when she was satisfied that he was in a sitting position on their bed. He scowled at her, his eyes bleary. Half his hair was standing up.

Nesta tried not to notice that he didn't wear a shirt to bed, and the weak sunlight filtering in through the windows was currently illuminating his chest.

"Why?" he said finally.

"We have to be at Feyre and Rhysand's in half an hour."

He scrubbed his face with the palm of his hand. "But it takes a half an hour to get there."

"Exactly."

Realization dawned on his face. "Oh."

"There it is. Brilliance once again shines down from the heavens. Praise the Lord Jesus, etcetera, etcetera."

"I'm sorry," he said.

She huffed.

He tugged on her elbow and pulled her down to the bed, smiling faintly. "Come on. I'm not that bad."

"Do you know how many alarms I set?"

"Four?"

"Seven, Cass. Seven."

He winced. "I'm a deep sleeper."

"You don't say."

"Sarcasm hurts, you know."

She groaned as he kissed her cheek, nuzzling his nose in the curve of her neck. "I hate you."

"Not even remotely accurate."

"I wish it was, though."

"That," he said, flicking her nose, "isn't true, either."

She glared. "Don't tell me what I feel."

"Oh, God. I would never dare, Nesta. I don't have a deathwish." He smiled, a dimple appearing in his left cheek. She had a strange, sudden impulse to kiss it. "I love you."

She frowned. "We're still late."

"I know."

"It's still all your fault."

He kissed her temple. "I know."

She sighed, resigned. "I love you, too, Cass."

—

Mor hated the mornings. The sun was altogether far too bright.

"Tell me again," she called to Azriel, flicking the blush brush over her cheeks and examining her reflection in the mirror, "why we had to be there this early?"

"Tell me again," Az said, appearing in the doorway, "how the hell I knot one of these?" He held a lumpy tie uselessly in his hands, a befuddled expression on his face.

Mor shook her head and smiled, dropping the blush brush on the counter. She went over to him, straightening out his tie and knotting it quickly and efficiently, smoothing down his shirt. "There. See?"

He stared at her hands. "How… How did you do that?"

She kissed his cheek, and a telltale blush rose in his skin. She never got tired of making Azriel blush. "Magic," she said mysteriously, going back over to the mirror. She uncapped her eyeliner pencil and started outlining her eyes with efficient strokes.

He grumbled, zipping up the fly of his pants. He walked beside her, peering at his reflection and slicking down his hair. He looked almost comical in his button-down and tie; his muscles were too big for the shirt, straining against the fabric.

Mor half-wanted to rip it right off of him.

She snapped off the top of her lipstick and began applying it, outlining her lips in a deep red. She began to hum a Christmas carol—let it snow, let it snow, let it snow—and reached for her curling iron. They'd probably be ten or fifteen minutes late, but that was fine; almost expected.

Azriel came up behind her, sniffing her still-damp golden curls. He wound one around his finger. "You look beautiful," he said, gaze somehow deep and opaque.

Mor smiled. "Of course I do." She gave his ear a tug. "You look rather dishy too, I must say."

That same pink tinge crept into his cheeks. Her smile widened.

"I don't think anyone's ever called me 'dishy' before," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Their mistake. You're the very epitome of the word. Your picture should be next to the definition in the dictionary."

He rolled his eyes, ducking his head, but Mor stopped him, wrapping her arms around her waist. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. Later, she'd make good on her promise with that shirt. She vowed it right then and there.

"Merry Christmas, Az."

—

Elain tugged on a pair of gloves and earmuffs, sliding into her jacket. Lucien watched her with faint amusement, his lips quirked. He wasn't a winter accessory sort of person, which, frankly, Elain didn't understand. How could you not be a winter accessory kind of person?

"Any day now," he drawled.

"Oh, hush, you," she said, grabbing a striped scarf and looping it around her neck. (It was Harry Potter-themed; she was a Hufflepuff.)

Lucien grabbed the stack of presents from the counter. He stumbled under their weight; there were eight of them. Elain giggled a bit.

"Oh, hush, you," Lucien mimicked, frowning.

She kissed his nose, and he tripped backwards, almost dropping the presents. She laughed, and he glowered at her, his cheekbones dusted with a faint smudge of pink. Boys, Elain had learned, were divided into two main categories: those who blushed, and those who made her blush.

Lucien, somehow, was both. She liked that—liked that he didn't quite fit into her equation. She liked that no matter what, Lucien always managed to find ways to surprise her.

Elain grabbed the two travel mugs on the counter—one pink, full of jasmine tea (hers), and one steel-gray, full of coffee with a teaspoon of sugar (his). She beamed at him. "Merry Christmas, Luc."

"Merry Christmas, El," Lucien said, walking to the front door. She opened it for him, and he slid by, presents teetering dangerously in his arms.

"Honey," Elain said, "shouldn't you take a couple of trips?"

"Nah. I'd just waste time."

She watched him walk down the driveway with pursed lips. "If you say so," she said, just as Lucien slipped on a patch of slick ice and dropped to the ground like a stone.

She shrieked, tea and coffee sloshing over the rim of the travel mugs as she ran over to him, careful to avoid the black ice. "Lucien! Are you alright?"

He blinked up at her. The presents had fallen to the ground (thank God there was nothing breakable), and he had sunk to his ass in the snow.

"I should've taken a couple of trips," he said.

She shook her head, fighting a smile. She set the cups down, extending an arm. "Come on."

He took her hand, and she staggered backwards, tripping over the mugs. Coffee and tea spilled everywhere, even as Lucien snarled, "Shit" and picked them up. Warm liquid dripped from his hands (red and chapped, Elain noted; she'd have to give him some of her good Aveda lotion).

"We're a mess," she said hopelessly, looking at the presents, spilled drinks, and Lucien's snow-covered ass.

He let out a half-choked noise that sounded like a laugh, and before she knew it, they were both laughing, winter sunlight washing them in a deluge of merriment.

—

Amren leaned against the doorway, examining her fingernails as Varian scurried around her flat like a rat.

"Keys," he said. "Keys, keys, keys—where the hell did I put the keys?"

Varian, Amren had learned, was the kind of person that repeated whatever they were looking for while they were looking for it. Keys, keys, keys; coffee, coffee, coffee; phone, phone, phone. She didn't know how this helped the process, and she told him so.

He stopped and glared at her. "You know what's really not helping the process?"

She grinned wolfishly, pulling out the keys from her pocket and dangling them from her fingers. "The fact that I've had them all along?"

He stared at her. "Do you just delight in being evil?"

"Bingo, lovely." She tossed the keys to him, and he caught them. "Though I would've told you if you hadn't said, 'Amren, you can't even drive, what would you be doing with the keys?' when I offered to help."

"You're a sadistic monster."

"You charmer, you."

"It's supposed to be Christmas."

"And…?"

"It's a day of giving. A day of merriment."

Amren shrugged. "Too bad I'm pagan, then."

"What? No, you're not."

Her dark eyes glimmered with mischief, and she took a step forward, hooking her finger around his tie. "So sure about that, little boy?" she murmured huskily, and Varian's chest hitched. She laughed softly and backed up, striding out the front door with a single finger crooked over her shoulder, beckoning to him. "Keep up, lovely. I'm not done with you just yet."

—

Feyre burnt the bread. In her defense, it wasn't her fault. It was Rhys's.

She'd pulled up a recipe on her computer—simple bread for beginner bakers, it said—when Rhys had waltzed into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.

(Hint #1 that she was so, so screwed.)

"Uh-uh," she said. "I don't think so."

He leaned against the doorframe with a roguish grin. "Oh?"

"Nope," she said. "This isn't happening. I can tell you that for a fact right now."

"Feyre darling, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

She gritted her teeth together. "Go put some clothes on, Rhys. This isn't a club for exotic dancers."

"You know I would never dance for anyone but you. Though I would make a spectacular stripper. If you'd like me to demonstrate for you…"

"Rhysand."

"So touchy."

"I mean it."

"Mean what?"

"I," Feyre said, turning up her nose in what she hoped was a dignified manner, "am going to bake bread."

He nodded solemnly. "Of course you are."

"I am. Jesus Christ, Rhys, stop looking at me like that."

"Looking at you like what?"

She huffed, stalking forward and turning him around, propelling him out of the kitchen. "I'm going to embrace what could be my true calling as a baker."

"Feyre, you can't even cook frozen peas."

"Firstly, I'll have you know that I resent that. Secondly, if you'd like to join me on my vocational quest, you're more than welcome, but I require appropriate clothing in my creative workspace at all times."

He half-turned. "Creative workspace?"

"That's right. Now, what is it going to be? Lying half-naked in your room all alone—"

"I'll have you know that I'm decidedly more than half-naked."

"—or helping your wonderful, devoted, patient girlfriend make bread for our guests?"

He considered this for a moment. "Is there a third scenario where you decide to accompany me back to the bedroom and we have lots and lots of fun?"

"Maybe if you hadn't woken me up at six this morning, you bastard, there would be."

"Oh, come on—"

"Out with you," she said, shoving him into the bedroom. "If you want to come out after that, I'm going to insist you have on at least two more articles of clothing."

And with that, she turned around, ignoring his squawks of protest. That, she thought, will teach him to wake me up at six am on a holiday. Prick.

She managed fairly well alone for a while. She pulled down all the ingredients from the shelves; flour and sugar and yeast and salt, and even managed to get a lumpy sort of shape that almost (almost) looked like dough.

It was progress.

And it was at that moment that Rhys came in wearing nothing but three ties: one tied messily around his neck, another around his forehead, and another around the tattoo on his arm.

Otherwise, he was stark naked.

Dear God.

She stared at him. "What the fuck, Rhys?"

"You said two more articles of clothing," Rhys said, smiling like the devil and pointing to his ties. "See? I have on three."

"I'm going to kill you," she said. Her face felt like it was on fire.

"Are you sure that's what you want to do to me?"

"Get out," she cried, pointing to the door. "I am baking bread! Bread! Good, wholesome bread! Do you understand?"

He put his hands up and started backing slowly away, but that stupid smirk wasn't off his face. Gods. She was going to murder him. Murder him.

Yes; Feyre was going to listen to that side of her voice. She was a strong, independent woman, dammit, and she was going to bake some bread.

She turned her back on him, squinting at the recipe. It took longer than she wanted to admit for the erratic beating in her chest to calm, for the words on the recipe to somehow make sense.

She was in the middle of kneading the bread when Rhys came in again. She turned, ready to snap at him, but he was wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants a t-shirt, and a robe, thank Lord. She settled for scowling, plopping her hands on her waist.

"What now? Come to tease me some more?"

"I came to help you," he said. "No need to get so testy."

She fixed him with a fierce glower. "This is a creative workspace, got it? No room for your antics."

He took his thumb and brushed a smudge of flour off her forehead. "I wouldn't dream of it."

And things went well for a while. He kept to his word, and she sent him to work—or, rather, he sent her to work, after informing her that she had no idea what the hell she was doing, and would she kindly allow him to take it from here. Which she did. Somehow the dough had turned slimy, and it was leaking, which she didn't think was supposed to happen.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, they got the bread into the oven, and the house filled with a sort of fresh-bakery scent. The kitchen was a mess, and she grabbed a rag, dampening it with water from the sink, when…

When Rhys's hands slid around her waist, pulling her to him, and he kissed her—hard. The kind of kiss that was leading somewhere.

What pathetic shreds were left of Feyre's restraint evaporated, and the kitchen table was put to… creative use. It was, after all, her creative workspace.

Because dammit, she did love him. She loved him because he was the kind of guy that walked into the kitchen wearing nothing but three silk ties while she was trying to bake bread—and then, ten minutes later, come back and teach her how to bake bread properly.

She was so in love with him that it was difficult to look and him and breathe at the same time. Somehow, when he kissed her, it felt like her heart was shattering—but in the best possible way. She wanted it to keep on shattering forever.

Later, sprawled out on the kitchen floor, covered in flour, Rhys encircled his arms around her and whispered, "Marry me."

Feyre's breath hitched, and she twisted, looking at him. His violet eyes were earnest, opaque. "That's not funny."

"I didn't mean it to be. I was serious."

She shook her head. "I… Rhysand."

"Yes, Feyre darling?"

"You don't even have a ring. This is…"

Wordlessly, Rhys reached for his bathrobe (discarded, thrown over a chair) and dug into the pocket. He retrieved a small, black, velvet box.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, sitting up. "No. No way."

"I had a whole night planned," Rhys said, a bit sheepishly. "But…" He swallowed, and it struck Feyre that he looked nervous. As if she might turn him down.

He got up on his knees. It was such a reverse position—he was taller than her, as she sat on the floor. He had flour in his hair, on his face, in his ears.

She was crying now, tears sliding freely down her cheeks.

"Feyre," he said, but she was already nodding hysterically, both hands pressed to her mouth. He gave a nervous, shuddering laugh. "Stop. I'm trying to do this properly."

"Okay," she whispered. "Go ahead."

"Feyre," he repeated, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes," she said, her voice choked. "Yes."

He laughed, and pulled her face to his, planting a firm, relieved sort of kiss on her lips. It was almost as if he'd expected her to say no.

Not a chance in hell. Not in a thousand years.

She snatched the box from him, opening it up. Inside was a simple ring—simple, but elegant, with a dark stone in the middle ringed by tiny diamonds. Her chest constricted.

"It was my mother's," Rhys said, taking the ring and sliding it on her finger. "A family heirloom of hers."

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Feyre said, which was a lie. Rhysand was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, but the ring was a close second.

It was then that the door to their apartment opened, and Elain and Lucien came in, followed closely by Mor and Azriel.

Mor sniffed the air. "Is something burning?"

Lucien's gaze fell on them, and he jumped, shielding his eyes. "Jesus, Feyre! Put on some clothes!"

Rhys hurriedly handed her his bathrobe, and she shucked it on, her cheeks burning.

Mor burst out laughing. "What the hell happened here, dear cousin?" she asked Rhys, and then her eyes fell on the empty black box and the ring on Feyre's finger. Her jaw dropped. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God."

"Why are we taking our sacred Lord's name in vain?" Amren said drily, coming in arm-in-arm with Varian. She raised a brow at the two of them on the floor. "No wonder you two don't host more often."

"He proposed," Elain said, her eyes wide as saucers.

Two more footsteps sounded in the hallway outside their apartment, and Feyre heard Cassian say, "See, Nesta, we're not that late" just as the two of them walked in.

Nesta scowled, stopping short in the doorway. "Jesus fuck. What is wrong with the two of you?"

"Rhysand proposed," Mor said, sounding strangely as if she might cry.

"Rhysand," Rhys said, standing up and helping Feyre to her feet, "can speak for himself."

Feyre held up her hand, conscious of her tear-stained face and not particularly caring one bit. "We're getting married."

He turned to her and glared. "You stole my thunder."

But it was too late—they were being swarmed by friends, by weeping and by hugs, by shrieks of delight and oh my God that ring is gorgeous.

Unfortunately, their cries were rather rudely interrupted by the blaring of the smoke alarm. The bread, it seemed, was burnt beyond repair.

—

Other things happened that Christmas.

Mor didn't quite make it until she got home to rip Azriel's shirt off; she found half an hour to sneak into Rhys and Feyre's bathroom. When they came out, Azriel's whole face was smeared pink, and neither of them had managed to re-knot his tie.

Cassian gave Nesta a thick, leather-bound Thesaurus. "For when you need more insults," he explained, and she promptly whacked him with it, though she was laughing. They were all laughing that day.

But after, while the others weren't looking, he also gave her a pair of diamond earrings. Nesta, though she didn't admit it afterwards, cried. She had never gotten a pair of diamond earrings before—she'd been too young while they were wealthy, and afterwards, they'd been too poor. It was a reminder of all that she had gained—of all that Cassian had given to her.

That time, when she told him she loved him, she didn't say it in a resigned way. She said it while she was hugging him so tight that Cassian half-thought his lungs might cave in, sobbed it into his chest, her face pressed against the cloth of his shirt.

Lucien gave Elain a whole box full of winter accessories—earmuffs and hats and scarves. He also gave her a packet of the seeds of a rare species of hybrid rose. "For spring," he said, but she was already contemplating how the blooms would look in her garden, fresh and vibrant and flush with life.

Amren's gift to Varian was understated. She gave him a pair of socks.

But as he looked at her dubiously, she said, "I love you."

It was the best Christmas present Varian could've asked for—the words he'd never expected her to say.

And Feyre and Rhysand?

Rhys did take her on the nighttime jaunt he had planned. He took her to dinner, to a Broadway show (he'd given her the ticket as another Christmas present, and then she was crying all over again), and he'd brought her to the park, where a horse-drawn carriage was waiting. Snow had fallen in his hair, gleaming like sugar crystals.

She'd made him propose to her again, just as they were stumbling off the carriage. She gave him back the ring, made him kneel in the snow, made him say the words. Marry me.

Yes, she replied. And that was that.

It was a Christmas of diamonds and roses and declarations, of rings and of too-tight shirts and clumsy fingers that had not quite grasped the concept of knotting a tie. But most of all, it was a Christmas of love.

The stars shone down brightly that night, brimming with answered dreams.

A/N: Appropriately fluffy, I hope. Review & let me know what you thought! :)