Summary: Bobby and Brigitte exchange letters and gifts as the Christmas of 1937 approaches. (Bobby/Brigitte, P/T (ish), The Killing Game, Rated R for language and sexual content)

Authors' notes: This is a short story that is connected to our larger Sainte Claire saga, which follows the lives of Bobby and Brigitte from The Killing Game. It may not make a ton of sense if you didn't read our story Summer, so we invite you to take a look at that.

Many thanks must go to our wonderful betas CaptAcorn, Delwin, and Photogirl1890. Not only would our work be a slew of typos and grammar errors without them, but they challenge us to produce the best story possible. Please do check out their stories if you aren't familiar with their work. They write some of the best Tom and B'Elanna fic out there.

We hope you all enjoy this little Christmas present as you wait for us to write Autumn.

A Very Merry Sainte Claire Christmas

By Sareki and RSB

October 20, 1937

"Oh, dear… did you forget your umbrella?"

It took everything Brigitte had to not shoot a nasty look at the mistress who ran the women's dormitory. Soaked head to toe, it was quite obvious that Brigitte had forgotten her umbrella that morning. Of course, when she had headed out on what had been an unseasonably warm October day, there had not been a cloud in the sky.

But in the one and a half years that Brigitte had lived at this residence, she had learned to bite her tongue and smile like a proper lady.

"The rain caught me by surprise," she replied, feeling yet another stream of water make its way down her back.

"Well, make sure you get out of those damp clothes as quick as possible so you don't catch a cold."

No, I was just going to sit in my room like this. "I will."

Brigitte started to head to the stairs when the woman's voice called again. "Oh, Brigitte, you got a letter."

That perked Brigitte up. Turning back toward Madame Chéreau, Brigitte wondered if it was from Bobby or Simone. Either way, it would be a positive end to a somewhat exhausting day.

The older woman held out the thick envelope, and Brigitte knew immediately it was from Bobby. He tended to write her novel-sized letters, whereas her correspondences with Simone were more rapid and brief. Although it only took a day or two to get notes back and forth to Simone, it often took a week or two to get letters to Bobby.

Every Monday, they would each mail a letter to one another. Bobby tended to write the letter over the entire week, hence the length. She never really knew how he could find so much to say, but he always seemed to manage somehow. She would typically write her letter to him on Sunday, summarizing her week. She always felt bad that she wasn't as verbose in her correspondence, but he didn't seem to mind.

Madame Chéreau gave her a knowing smile as Brigitte plucked the envelope from her hand. By the end of her first semester living here, Chéreau had asked about the very regular envelopes from America. Brigitte had thought it none of her business and replied only that she had an American friend.

The mistress had repeated the word 'friend' in such a way as to indicate that she knew exactly what kind of 'friend' this American was.

Turning back to the stairs, Brigitte made her way quickly to her room. Once inside, she toed off her completely soaked shoes and placed them near the radiator before divesting herself of the rest of her drenched clothes. Completely naked, she stood in front of the radiator, slowly turning like a chicken on a spit, enjoying the heat on her bare skin. Finishing one rotation, she caught Bobby's letter out of the corner of her eye, still sitting where she had tossed it on the bed when she entered.

Not bothering to put on any clothes, Brigitte slipped under the covers of her bed. She then ripped open the envelope and began to read.

October 4, 1937

The mail must be slowing down, Brigitte thought, since this was over two weeks ago. As he always did, Bobby wrote in French.

My Dearest Brigitte,

As usual, I just returned from the post office, having nearly missed mailing your letter. Again. My classes ending at four in the afternoon has destroyed my post office routine. You are right, I should wake up earlier and send it in the morning. But I just hate getting out of bed, especially when it is cold.

Brigitte shook her head. This had been Bobby's ongoing struggle for most of the semester, trying to get to the post office before it closed. She had told him to just send it on Tuesday, but he protested, reminding her they had a deal.

The letter rambled on, mostly describing his day-to-day activities. He tended to write her while he was in class and bored with whatever was being presented. Nothing of too much consequence: he had a couple papers to write and he still hated his British history class. (All their kings have one of three names, Brigitte! I see why we rebelled against them!) The margins of the letter had little doodles, mostly depicting things that were around him at the time.

Snuggling deeper in the bed, Brigitte flipped through the pages, enjoying Bobby's chatter. She was nearing the end of the letter when she came across a line that made her heart skip a beat.

So, I was thinking. I have almost a month off at Christmas. What if I came to visit you?

A visit! Their plans to see each other the previous summer had been thwarted by his father informing him that he needed to work at the mill and Brigitte getting an apprenticeship through the university. She flashed back to the day she'd gotten the letter that had finally confirmed that he would not be coming. (My dad will not let me take a month off to come visit you. I have tried to convince him every way possible. But it is not going to happen. My mom said that they would pay for you to come, but this apprenticeship is too important. Please do not give it up. We will figure out something else.)

She had seriously considered not taking the apprenticeship that summer. But Bobby had told her to take the position, and then Simone told her to stop thinking with her hormones and get her priorities in order.

So Brigitte did.

But now her heart was racing as she quickly read the rest of the letter.

I do not know exactly how it would work. But I would really like to see Paris with you. And I'm sure you'll want to be home for Christmas, so we will spend the holiday with your family. What dates are you free? Like I said, nothing is for sure, but I think I can make this work. I really do not want to wait another eight months to see you.

She didn't want to wait to see him either. She let the letter fall against her chest as she began to picture it: walking along the festively lit Champs-Élysées, hand in hand. Coming back to her room… Her eyes popped open at the realization that he couldn't stay here. 'No men allowed upstairs' was one of the cardinal rules. He would have to stay at a hotel… no, wait, they could stay at a hotel.

Closing her eyes again, Brigitte imagined the fancy hotel that Bobby would book. Huge windows would display an incredible view of the city, and a large, soft bed would dominate the room. He'd gallantly help her out of her coat - and then the rest of her clothes - before leading her over to the bed.

In her mind, she could see him climb into bed after her, his naked body warm and heavy on top of her. Her own hand lazily trailed along her stomach, and she imagined it was his. She could nearly feel his touch, taste his kiss. As her hand trailed lower, alone in her tiny room, Brigitte gave herself over to fantasy.