A new story for the holidays! This chapter is dedicated to Orwell is watching-xoxo.
Happy birthday Orwell, you are now an old lady.
Un-beta'ed, as always.
- o - o -
Chapter One: Mistletoe Christmas
There were some days, Orwell decided, that she wanted to do nothing more than beat her partner's skull in with his coffee mug. Today was one of them. On a typical Saturday morning, the vigilante would usually have been up at the crack of dawn, checking over crime reports and brewing the disgusting sludge he called coffee. Alternatively, he'd be dragging himself back into the lair from another night of fighting the scum of Palm City as the Cape.
Today, though, he was lying in bed and moping. Orwell had checked the calendar half a dozen times and still couldn't figure out quite what was bothering her partner. (Okay, it was Christmas, but she didn't really see the big deal.) There were no birthdays, no anniversaries, and no bank robberies to distract him. (She'd even called Max to ask him if something was up. The old carnie was apologetic, and had offered very little advice. Apparently on of Raia's tigers was sick and the girl was moping around the tent.)
It was just her luck, then, that Vince had picked today to be a mopey grouch. The blogger contemplated throwing a pen at her moody partner, but decided against it. Ever since his first encounter with a Tarot assassin, the vigilante had become obscenely good at catching anything that was thrown at him.
Orwell sighed and looked around the lair. Maybe that was the problem then… No tree, no decorations… Hell, Vince hadn't even set his radio to one of the million stations that was playing non-stop Christmas music. He. Was. Moping.
The blogger glowered up at her partner, who was reclining on his bed and staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling. Fine. He could act like Scrooge on Christmas, but not for long… Hopefully she'd find a store that was open on Christmas. (WalMart was always a decent bet…)
"I'm going out, Vince," she said loudly, breaking the relentless quiet in the lair. She scowled at her partner when he grunted in reply, and shrugged. Going over a mental checklist, Orwell added in espresso beans. How would Vince react to real coffee instead of that sludge…?
She grinned at the thought and left, pulling on a light jacket.
- o -
Vince woke up to a somewhat familiar smell. For a few seconds, he'd thought he was back in West Palm, at the home he'd shared with Dana. He'd woken up to what smelled like honest-to-God real food—something he only got if he went to the diner or was invited to a meal with the carnival. (That was actually happening more often, come to think of it. Ever since Scales had been released, due to a miscarriage of justice nearly a year ago, the carnival had been keeping an eye on Vince.)
At least Dana wasn't around to shoo him out of the way, this time. Ever since the incident in base housing, back when they had first been married, Dana hadn't allowed him back in the kitchen under pain of death.
Sighing, the vigilante cracked one eye open. He blinked in confusion, then opened both eye wide; to be on the safe side, he pinched himself. It hurt, so he obviously wasn't dreaming. And, if he didn't know better, he would have sworn that somebody had decorated his lair for Christmas and… (Was that eggnog on the command center?)
"Orwell…" he said slowly, sitting up. "Did you do…all of this?" The blogger smiled up at him, brushing a strand of dark brown hair back behind one ear. There was a red headband he'd seen somewhere before holding the rest back.
"Food's getting cold," she replied. Vince didn't know if the smile on his partner's face was a good thing or not. One thing was for sure though: He was not the kind of person to give up eggnog, hot food, or what smelled like real coffee.
"Merry Christmas, Vince," Orwell said when the vigilante finally sat down. She pointed up at the ceiling, a playful little smirk on her face. Vince, dreading whatever it was that Orwell was point at, looked up. He grinned and sighed, shaking his head.
"You set this up, didn't you?" he asked, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Orwell smiled back. "It's mistletoe, Vince," she said. Vince got the hint and leaned over the table. He sat back down, wearing his own self-satisfied smirk, and began spooning mashed potatoes onto the paper plate.
The blogger smiled, feeling slightly shell-shocked. It had only been a joke, honestly, but… Well, at least he wasn't moping anymore. Orwell grinned and touched her lips, which were still tingling. It had been a very quick kiss, but hey, who was she to complain?
"Merry Christmas, Orwell."
She grinned. Mission accomplished.
- o – o -
So, what did you think? Like it? Hate it? Wondering why the mistletoe was there? Drop a line and let me know!
Author's note: This may very well be the only instance of Vinwell I ever write.