Epiphany

(or: It's the Thought That Counts)

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 2,621

Rating: T / PG-13 (and five instances of the F-word)

Summary: Happy Christmas. Late.

Disclaimer: Don't own. Only squat.

Notes: Because it's that time of year again.

Saturday, 6 Jan

Bridget never knew if it was something her mother had made up or if one's Christmas tree really did need to come down by Epiphany…. Or what? she had asked herself. Be struck by lightning? Be consigned to the third level of hell?

She had never bothered to find out, but she wasn't going to take any chances. Besides, the lovely, lovely man who had abandoned a job in America for her, with whom she had been sleeping for eight days now (though sleeping had little to do with it), was coming over and she wanted the place to look nice for him. Was only natural, she'd told herself, and was not some kind of weird retro-gender-roles thing. That and he hadn't actually seen the place while it was tidy.

Only eight days and she already disliked not waking up with him by her side; he had stayed over the previous night but an early morning appointment he couldn't get out of meant he'd gone long before she was conscious. She'd awakened to a very sweet note on her bedside table—Be back at three, will return with late fireside picnic lunch—and after brewing herself some coffee, she intended on making the place as nice-looking as she could as well as take down the tree before he came back.

She had hours and hours. Plenty of time. She had her coffee and some muesli, taking delight in smoking a fag out in the open and not having to hide it from him, as she watched big, fluffy January flakes float down past her window.

Remembering where she'd put the box for the ornaments was a challenge, but then recalled she'd put it in her bedroom so it'd be out of the way. She could, however, no longer see it in there, as the heaps of discarded clothing camouflaged every surface exceedingly well. As she began digging through the piles and throwing everything into the hall, destined for the laundry (clean, dirty; she didn't have time to determine which was which), she realised that the task of cleaning the entire flat was more monumental than she had first conceived.

Right, she thought. Prioritise. Focus on the living room and the bedroom.

But first the tree.

But first the box!

With an exasperated "Gah!" she took an armful of clothing to the hamper in the bathroom, then a second, and still no ornament box. Oh, to hell with it, she thought, then picked up every loose pant, bra, and jumper and stuffed them into a grossly overfilled laundry basket until finally, she located the errant box.

In the top of her closet.

Well, she thought, at least the bedroom is more presentable now.

She was in the middle of plucking up last night's wine glasses and dinner plates from the living room—with a dreamy smile she recalled why she hadn't done so last night—when her entryphone buzzed, signalling a visitor. She detoured to the entryphone, picked it up, and offered a tentative, "Hello?"

"Hi. It's me. I finished early."

Oh fuck, she thought. Fuck fuck fuck!

She was in no way, shape, or form ready for him to be back—flat was still a disaster, she was still in her nightie and robe, she had a cigarette burning in the ash tray, and the tree was as yet untouched—but said with a forced bright smile, "Mark! Come on up!"

She didn't, however, press the lock release. Instead she ran to the kitchen to deposit the glasses and plates she'd been carrying, then took the cigarette she'd been smoking, stubbed it out, and pitched it into the waste bin. The answerphone buzzed again as she flung open the window to get in some fresh though chilly air to disperse the smoke, then ran to answer the entryphone again.

"Bridget, the lock's still engaged." It was Mark, unsurprisingly.

"Is it? Sorry. Here, let me try again."

She hung up the entryphone, once again not pressing the button; she instead dashed into the bedroom to hastily make the bed, then ducked into the bathroom to brush her hair and otherwise make sure she didn't look like she was wearing a fright wig.

She heard a knock on the flat's door. "Bridget, something must be wrong with your lock release. The old man, um, Mr Ramdas—he let me up." There was a pause. "Bridget?"

"Hold on, coming," she called from the loo, ran to close the window, then went over to open the door at last.

When she did, she watched as an appreciative smile spread over his face. He had in his hand a white paper bag, clearly takeaway of some variety, and a dusting of rapidly-melting snow on the shoulders of his coat and hair. "Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said, her voice sounding a little strained to her own ears. She cleared her throat. "Have a good meeting?"

"Oh yes, very productive, very speedy." He came in, then kissed her hello, before heading up the stairway. "I was motivated to push through the agenda more quickly than usual."

She smiled, felt warmth spreading across her cheeks. "What've you brought?"

"Oh, a bit of a treat," he said as they as ascended the stairs single-file. "Moroccan bsteeya and tagine. Think you'll like them. First one is sort of pasty-like with egg and chicken, and the second's a kind of a lamb and vegetable stew."

She smiled broadly; the bsteeya was what she and her friends usually split when they went to the Moroccan place. "Oooh. Fantastic."

He brought the takeaway to the living room, and from the look on his face he seemed surprised. "The tree's still up?"

"Yes," she admitted glumly. "I got caught up in a laundry bog looking for the ornament box. The living room's a casualty, too, as you can see."

"Not a problem," he said, pulling some pillows down onto the floor before lighting the gas fireplace. "All I need is lunch, the fire, and you… and not necessarily in that order."

She felt her face flush with heat again as she smiled, then joined him on the nest of pillows to dig into their lunch.

He'd gotten one container of each dish, so they took turns eating out of each of them; he smiled and playfully teased her for having more than her share of the bsteeya, while she tried to force-feed him a carrot from the tagine after declaring he did not care much for them. She knew logically that a lot of it was simply that they were just starting out together; everything was a fun and new exploration. There was a thrill with each discovery of his likes and dislikes, but especially his passions and the depth of his passionate nature hiding behind his reserve. Watching him be so relaxed and unguarded around her, after months of thinking he was a judgemental jerk looking down his nose at her, seemed wondrous. She had even discovered she liked to look at him while he slept.

Lunch was then over, and he set the containers aside before looking back to her, bringing his brows together. "Hm," he said, then declared mysteriously, "that will not do."

"What?"

He then drew her face close to his and kissed her, his tongue flicking out against her bottom lip; her eyelids dropped automatically as she kissed him back, and she thought, Sod the messy flat; he can have me right here on the pillows if he wants.

"There," he said suddenly, pulling away. "You had sauce on your mouth."

She smiled, then giggled, feeling a little sheepish and wondering if she had telegraphed her thoughts to him. "Oh. Thanks."

He brushed back her hair with his fingers, looking into her eyes, then said in a husky voice, "Anytime." He looked at her for a few moments more, blinking thoughtfully, then added, "Why don't I help you take down the tree?"

She felt a bit whiplashed. "Oh, um, sure."

Deftly he got to his feet then turned to help her to hers. "Since I didn't have the pleasure of trimming it with you," he went on to explain.

She smiled. "It's knee-high. It's a five minute task."

He cupped her face in his hand again, smiling warmly. "That isn't the point, now, is it?" he asked tenderly.

"No," she said, smiling in return, her heart doing cartwheels at yet one more example of his sweet, sentimental nature. "I suppose not."

She went back into the bedroom for the ornament box then returned to where he was examining the tree. "Well," he said; it really wasn't much higher than his knee. "You weren't exaggerating, were you?"

"You know what they say," she said flippantly; "size doesn't matter."

She turned to him to catch the tail end of a slightly worried expression, at which she burst out with a giggle, giving him a hug.

He hugged her in return, his hands slipping around her shoulders, sliding down and settling on her backside. "Nope," he said, kissing her on the top of the head, then releasing her, but not before patting her arse affectionately. "Size doesn't matter."

She grinned up at him, each day becoming more and more fond of the notion of a nice boyfriend who liked her just as she was. "Come on and help me with this onerous task."

They both dropped down onto their knees, then began to pluck the ornaments one by one from the limbs of the tiny tree and set them into the box; curiously, she seemed to be able to take down three in the time it took him to take off just one. She was unfastening one of the more stubborn ones from a lower limb when her eye was caught by a shimmer of gold nestled among the folds of the blanket she'd used to cover up the base of the tree.

Thinking it was an errant bulb, she reached for it, but she soon found that not to be the case; it was flat and was obviously something wrapped in paper. "What on earth—" Bringing her brows together, she then pulled up what was clearly a wrapped present… except she was certain that this gift had not been there around Christmastime. It was not very large—easily held in one hand, else its presence under the small tree would have been apparent much sooner—but its folded edges were very crisp and precise, the paper a high-end designer wrapping paper, and it was all tied up with a shiny gold ribbon.

A smile spread across her face, and she felt her eyes fill with tears of happiness; Mark had most certainly planted the present there surreptitiously, had intended for her to find it as they took the tree down. She looked up at him, who was diligently studying her, and she saw the small smile on his own lips. "What have you there?" he asked, feigning innocence.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "As if you didn't know," she said, her voice tremulous.

"Why don't you open it and find out?"

She tugged on the ribbon, then tore off the paper, and when she opened the box those happy tears spilled down her cheeks as she looked upon the embodiment of his thoughtfulness. She looked at him again. "Oh, Mark. You didn't have to buy anything more for me. You already gave me a new diary."

"I have no idea what you mean," he said, still disavowing all knowledge of the provenance of the gift. "Clearly that old bugger Father Christmas has just fallen down on the job."

Chuckling, she launched herself forward, nearly knocking him over, and threw her arms around his neck as she delivered a rather lengthy, passionate kiss.

"Of course," she said, pulling away, threading her fingers into his hair, settling herself astraddle his folded knees, "I probably ought to go find Father Christmas and thank him. He's the one who really deserves that kiss."

He chuckled low in his throat. "In this case, I don't mind being his proxy."

She laughed and kissed him again.

"Thank you," she said. "I really love it."

"When I saw it," he confessed at last, "I thought immediately of you."

"Did you plan on having me find it taking down the tree while you were gone?"

"Yes and no," he said, a sly smile on his face. "I knew you'd find it taking down the tree, but I was sure you wouldn't get 'round to taking the tree down before I got back. Plus I made a point to get back here early."

"How long's it been there?"

He smirked. "A couple of days."

Sometimes it was good to be a predictable procrastinator; she smiled tenderly, gazing upon her gift once more. "So when have you had time this week to go browsing stores for presents?"

"I saw it back in October."

She wrinkled her brow. "But we weren't seeing each other in October."

His gaze was intense and unblinking, yet when he spoke, his voice was quiet: "I know."

She felt the tears fresh in her eyes once more, and she leaned forward, pressing her lips to his; he brought his arms around her and held her close to him.

The living room, the tree, could wait.

Mark did, in fact, make good use of the pillows on the floor, and the fire helped to keep her from getting a little too chilled, though to be perfectly honest, with the way he had her blood racing, there was little chance of that happening. Afterwards he propped himself up on an elbow, combing her hair away from her face to splay upon her pillow, then trace a delicate line along her cheek, lips and nose. She closed her eyes, feeling very warm, cosy and sleepy under his tender ministrations, which he continued for what felt like forever.

So sweet of him to have gone and bought for her something he had only seen once in passing, something that had made him think of her even before they had been on remotely friendly terms, a present—

"Oh," she said, her eyes opening suddenly. "Mark, I don't have anything for you."

He did not cease in that gentle touch, only broadened the scope, moving to her throat, her shoulder, her collarbone. Softly he said, his eyes following his fingers, "I already have what I want."

She smiled up at him, watched as Mark returned his gaze to hers… then watched him furrow his brow and raise his head higher. "Bridget," he said. "I smell something burning."

"What?" she asked, still a bit shag-addled. "It's a gas fireplace."

"No." He sat upright. "Oh, Christ. There's smoke in the kitchen."

Fuck, she thought. The fag end.

He jumped up, stark naked, and ran for her kitchen. She wrapped a blanket around herself and followed, got to the kitchen in time to see him dumping cupfuls of water into her waste bin. They both watched as the plume of smoke dissipated.

"Sorry," she said, though could not help but admire him standing there in the buff.

"You should be," he muttered as he set the glass down, then came close to her. "You said you'd quit."

"Well, I sort of did…" she began, trailing off, glancing away from his penetrating gaze.

"And don't you know better than to run the butt of a cigarette under the tap before throwing it into a waste bin?"

"I said I'm sorry."

"Bridget," he said authoritatively, then surprised her by cradling her face reverently in his hands and gifting her with another kiss. "You're a menace."

She laughed as he continued to kiss her.

The end.

End notes:

Bsteeya and tagine are two dishes we have come to traditionally enjoy on Christmas! Look 'em up on Wikipedia, since I can't post links here.

N.B. …Yes, I am aware that I never mentioned what his present was. Does it matter, after all?