Title: For Christmas, and Forever
Author: LuxKen27
Universe: Post-canon
Genre: Angst, Romance
Rating: Y
Warning: Language, innuendo
Word Count: 5,215
Summary: When an innocent holiday decoration unexpectedly unleashes a torrent of pain, Stacy strives to remind her husband of the real meaning of Christmas.
Author's Note: For Karen, the best KI fandom friend a nerdy, nostalgic fangirl could ask for, LOL! =)
This story is not part of my Stacy in Bloom universe. Further notes can be found at my LiveJournal, which is linked in my profile.
DISCLAIMER: The Kids Incorporated concept, storyline, and characters are © 1984 – 1993 Thomas Lynch/Gary Biller/MGM Television/20th Century Fox Home Entertainment/Disney Channel. Any resemblance to any person currently living or deceased is unintended (aka, I am writing about the characters, not the actors who portray them). No money is being made from the creation of this material. No copyright infringement is intended.
.xxxxx.
Stacy smiled as she stood up on her tiptoes, draping a piece of pine garland above the mantle and pinning it in place. She absently hummed along with the Christmas music blaring from the stereo as she worked, moving back to the center of the room every few steps to make sure the piece was centered and straight. When it was finally arranged to her satisfaction, she retraced her steps, weaving a thick crimson ribbon through the branches. The ribbon was trimmed with gold, which shimmered under the overhead lights. It'll look gorgeous with a fire, she thought to herself, curving one hand absently over her midsection as she admired her handiwork. Her mind's eye spun a comforting image of a cozy evening, curled in front of the fireplace with a cup of hot chocolate, leaning into her husband as she watched the flames crackle and dance.
Her smile faltered slightly as her thoughts drifted to her husband. Ryan had been away with his work for the last few weeks, down in Boston on a couple of gigs. He'd been chosen to produce the Philharmonic's annual Christmas concert, which was taped live and then televised nationally on Christmas Eve. The job, though incredibly prestigious, was only supposed to last a couple of days – a week, tops – but when one of his other clients caught wind of his whereabouts, he was obliged to stay longer and work on a track for his album. This musician was notoriously eccentric and temperamental, but he paid incredibly well for the inconveniences he caused. With Christmas right around the corner – and a pregnant wife to support – Ryan hardly felt like he could turn down the money.
Stacy sighed, touching the corners of her eyes as she turned back to her box of decorations. She'd known it would be hard – being separated from him had always been difficult, but he'd been in the music industry for the entirety of his adult career, so the constant travel wasn't exactly a surprise – but she hadn't expected it would be this hard.
Maybe it was because she was at home, by herself, utterly and entirely bored. She'd had to stop working as soon as she'd started to show, since a pregnant model weren't exactly welcome on the runway. She didn't mind sitting out the winter season all that much; the haute couture designers were busy putting the final touches on their spring collections, so all that was being shown at the moment was lingerie, both in print and on the catwalk. Still, that meant her friends were soaking up the available holiday gigs, scattering to the far corners of the globe for shows and parties and openings. Her best friend was currently in Dubai; the girls she'd known since the days of European tear sheets were working in Fiji and Australia and other warm, balmy paradises.
So it was easy for Stacy to feel restless and lonely, bouncing between the four walls of her apartment by herself. She talked with her husband nearly every day, but it didn't really make up for his absence; all too often she found herself feeling weepy and miserable. Only after visiting her parents on a lark over the weekend had she realized just how out of it she was – their Brooklyn brownstone was filled to the rafters with Christmas cheer: the tree and presents and wreaths and tinsel and even a gingerbread house, like the ones she used to build with her sister when they were kids. Being surrounded by all of her family's holiday traditions was comforting and familiar, and it invigorated her, inspiring her to bring a bit of holiday happiness to her own place. It was a huge project, and the perfect way to feel productive while she was alone.
Leroy Anderson's arrangement of "Sleigh Ride" cycled through her Christmas mix, drawing her from her brooding. The light and airy tune lifted her mood, and she smiled again as she picked through her box of goodies, trying to decide which room to tackle next. Just as she pulled out a pair of golden candlestick holders, the front door of the apartment opened, filling the foyer with a blast of cold air from the hallway.
"Whoa," intoned a voice, "what happened to this place? It looks like a Christmas factory exploded!"
Stacy whirled around, squealing with delight when she laid eyes on her husband. The jazzy swell of the song accompanied her as she crossed the room, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close. An anticipatory shiver shimmered down her spine as he tightened the embrace, brushing her hair over her shoulder and nuzzling her neck.
"Hi, honey," he murmured softly, his breath warm against her skin, "I'm home."
She pressed herself against him, biting her lip against the myriad of emotions flooded through her – love, excitement, happiness, relief. She felt the heavy sting of tears behind her eyes, but worked valiantly to keep them at bay. "I missed you," she replied in a wobbly tone. "God – I missed you so much."
He pressed a kiss to the side of her throat in response, before cupping her cheek and pulling away slightly, just far enough to look into her eyes. "Not half as much as I missed you," he mused, tracing the line of her lower lip with his thumb. "I hate being away from you."
At least you – Stacy's train of thought dissolved when his mouth found hers, pressing an urgent, needy kiss to her lips, one that cascaded into another, and another. Her heart warmed in her chest as her hands climbed the planes of his back, drawing his body flush against hers. The ache of loneliness at her core melted away, quickly replaced by a rush of giddy desire. She tugged at the collar of his heavy black peacoat, but the evocative gesture had the opposite effect than she wanted.
Ryan broke away, a soft chuckle reverberating through him and into her. "Let's not get too carried away just yet," he teased, touching her face once more. His eyes searched hers for a long, quiet moment, and she was arrested by the intensity of his gaze. "I just want to look at you," he finally admitted, a sheepish smile rising to his lips. He twined his fingers through her hair, brushing the long, blonde locks from her brow. "And try to figure out how you manage to become even more beautiful every time I see you."
Stacy flushed. She didn't exactly feel beautiful at that moment – after all, she was five months pregnant. She'd also let her hair air dry that morning, not even bothering to put on makeup; she was wearing an old pair of yoga pants and one of his sweaters over one of his long-sleeved t-shirts, along with a pair of thick wool socks. She hadn't really bothered trying to find many clothes that fit over her rapidly-changing body; she was mostly a homebody these days, and his clothes were incredibly comfortable, even if she ended up swimming in the extra fabric sometimes.
It was one of the perks of his being away so much, but she'd trade his wardrobe for him in a split second.
She smiled. "It's a gift, I suppose," she replied wryly.
He nodded, quirking a brow as his eyes drifted away from her face. He drew away from her, his expression shuttering as he gazed around the room. "And this?" he asked, gesturing towards the decorations. "Is it also a gift?"
Stacy flushed as her eyes followed his, roving around the room. Maybe I did go a little overboard, she considered silently as garland and holly and gold filled her field of vision. There was hardly a surface in the apartment that had gone untouched, especially in the living room – she'd purchased a new, festive cover for the sofa, little elf figurines for the coffee table, and red velvet stockings embroidered with gold lettering, which were hanging from the mantle above the fireplace.
"I know we haven't really talked about it," she confessed, following her husband as he wandered dazedly around the room, "but I – "
The words lodged in her throat when Ryan turned off the stereo mid-carol, reaching over without even looking at it as he passed by. He came to a halt in front of the fireplace, narrowing his eyes as he studied the stockings.
Stacy furrowed her brow, chewing on her lower lip as she studied him. "Are you okay?" she asked, squeezing his shoulder in what she hoped was a reassuring caress.
He swallowed hard, schooling his features into a carefully neutral expression. "Yeah," he replied tonelessly. "I guess I'm just tired." Stacy was startled when he lifted his eyes to hers, piercing her with a look of pure ice. "I hate travelling during the holidays."
Stacy took an uneven breath as Ryan turned and stalked out of the room. Her heart began to thud heavily in her chest as she stared at the stockings, wondering what the hell had just happened. She knew her husband well enough to know something was bothering him, and she had her doubts that it was a mere gripe about holiday travel. She reached out, touching the velvet material, following the soft curves of the fabric with one finger, her eyes tracing the golden lettering on each – one for her, one for him, and one that was still blank, waiting to be filled in with the name of their child.
An anxious weight settled over her shoulders as she drew her hand back, tugging at the sleeves of her sweater and shirt. She felt at a loss: he'd never raised an objection to her decorating before, and was pretty laid-back about surprises in general. So what now? she asked herself, curling her hands into fists. She didn't want to have some unspoken, ominous unknown hanging between them – but she didn't want to fight with him, either. Not now – not when he was finally back after being away for so long, and not when they were mere days from Christmas.
She took a deep breath, clenching her fists resolutely and turning to leave the room.
She found him in their bedroom, busy unpacking his suitcases. He'd stripped out of his winter gear somewhere between the living room and here, all of it casually tossed on his side of the bed. He glanced at her when she entered the room before turning his attention back to his task. "I'm sorry about before, with the music," he apologized, his eyes still trained on one partially empty bag. "It's just – if I hear another Christmas carol, I think I'm going to scream." His lips curved into a rueful smile. "You wouldn't believe how many takes are needed to record a supposedly 'live' performance."
Stacy walked into the room wordlessly, coming to a stop at the corner of their bed as she watched him work. He sorted his dirty clothes in silence, tossing them into the laundry baskets and stowing the now-empty suitcase in the bottom of his closet. When he started in on his other bag, she began to wonder how long he'd let her go without accepting his apology.
"Boston sucks this time of year," he finally said, apparently accepting her silence as he pulled out his shaving kit. "It's cold and windy and miserable, and the transit is shit." He shook his head. "I thought I was going to have to spend the night at the concert hall a couple of times, because they'd had to stop the T and sand the tracks. And they weren't exactly quick about it."
Stacy chewed on her lip, biting back a snarky comment about the glacial pace at which NYC's Transit Authority moved in the dead of winter.
He sighed, extracting a couple of pairs of socks before turning the bag over and dumping out an extra pair of shoes onto the floor. Stacy eyed the Converse sneakers sardonically – he never left home without them, and she was surprised he wasn't wearing them now. A quick glance at his feet revealed motorcycle boots, his favored footwear for snow and ice. She lifted a thoughtful gaze to the far window. I guess the weather is worse than I thought, she mused silently.
She hadn't been outside in days.
"And God, the trip home was a fucking nightmare," Ryan continued, his voice slightly muffled as he stowed the other suitcase in his closet. "Stuck on the train with a screaming kid on one side and a feuding couple on the other – and of course, they weren't related." He shook his head, pushing one hand through his hair while the other came to rest at his hip. "And it was unbearably hot, too, causing the kid to sneeze and cough the entire time he wasn't crying." He shrugged. "I couldn't decide if I felt sorry for him, or annoyed by him."
Finally, for the first time since she'd entered the room, he looked at her, his eyes lingering on her for a long moment. "Have I mentioned how much I hate travelling during the holidays?" he sighed, taking a step forward and reaching for her hands.
"Besides, there's no other place on earth I'd rather be than here," he added, his expression softening as he laced his fingers through hers, smoothing his thumbs over the backs of her hands. "The only thing that makes going away so much worthwhile, is knowing that I'm coming home to you, my beautiful wife."
Stacy rarely doubted the sincerity of his compliments, but she wasn't going to let him get away with this one. "So, I take it we're not going to visit your family for Christmas?" she asked pointedly, unsurprised when he dropped her hand and looked away.
She fisted her hands, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, working hard to keep her emotions in check. She hated it when he shut down like this, mostly because it terrified her. He was such an open person, unafraid to be goofy or vulnerable at any given moment; he'd only ever retreated into himself like this once before, and that was when his grandmother had died. He always tried to hide his pain from her, as if he could spare her the same heartache.
"Please, Ryan, tell me what's going on," she implored softly.
He looked at her, causing her heart to leap in her chest and flutter painfully against her ribs. She tightened the brace of her arms, steeling herself for any possibility – news that he'd lost his job with the temperamental musician, or that someone had died, or that he was having an affair. Something, anything –
"It's nothing," he finally said, averting his eyes and shrugging his shoulders, his hands digging into his hips.
– except that.
Inexplicably, tears pooled in her eyes. "Don't," she choked out, unable to still the violent tremor that shook through her at his obstinacy. "Don't keep things from me!" She swallowed hard, pressing past the lump that was rising fast and hard in her throat. "If I've done something to upset you – "
"Jesus, Stacy, no," he interrupted, his tone as fierce as his embrace as he swiftly wrapped his arms around her. She resisted for a long moment, stubborn in her unwillingness to give in to this measure of comfort, concentrating the entirety of her focus on keeping her fear – her anxiety – her emotions in check.
It was a silent struggle, but finally, he acquiesced, hugging her close. "It's not you, Stace – it's me," he admitted with a deep, shuttering sigh. "It's stupid, and petty, and shallow, and I didn't want to upset you with it." He paused. "But I guess I failed spectacularly on that score, didn't I?"
Her tears spilled over as she yielded to him, circling her arms around his waist and burying her head in his shoulder. She didn't want to cry, but she couldn't help it; she thought she'd wept herself dry over the course of the last three weeks, but obviously, fear and anxiety and raging hormones were proving to be a potent mix. She clung to him, fisting her hands against his back, her tears pooling in the curve of his shoulder; he rocked back on his heels, stroking her sides with long, slow, soothing caresses, and pressed a soft kiss to her brow when her silent sobs began to cede.
"I'm sorry – " they both began, their words unexpectedly falling in unison.
Stacy broke away from him, wiping away her tears with her sleeves. "I didn't mean to fall apart," she rushed out, her voice gravelly and raw. "The dumbest little things set me off these days, and I just cry and cry and cry." She sniffled, examining the wet patches of fabric now clinging to her hands.
"Don't apologize," he chided gently, brushing her hair from her brow, his hands cool against her flushed skin. He looked at her wryly. "Because honestly? This is a pretty dumb little thing."
She lifted her eyes to his in an unspoken plea.
He took her hands in his. "It's the decorations," he finally acknowledged, opening his mouth to continue, only to have her cut him off at the pass.
"I knew it," she interrupted, heaving a guilty sigh and squeezing his hands. "I knew it was something I'd done."
"Stace – " he tried, but she barreled on as if she didn't even hear his protest.
"I'm sorry," she burbled. "I know I didn't really discuss it with you, but then again – well, I never discuss interior design with you, and you never seemed to mind before, and I really needed some holiday cheer to get through the awfulness of your being away, but maybe I went overboard – "
"It's okay, Stace," he cut in with a chuckle. "It's not the decorations."
Her brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"
He dropped her hands, taking a step back. "It's Christmas," he clarified sheepishly.
She shook her head in disbelief. "You mean – you don't like it?" she asked, unable to even fathom the idea. Who hates such a magical holiday?
"I don't know," he confessed, sinking into the mattress of their bed. "My family doesn't exactly 'do' Christmas."
She stared at him uncomprehendingly. "What do you mean?" she questioned. "You don't celebrate it? At all?"
He shook his head, giving a baleful snort. "You've met them," he reminded her sardonically. "We aren't exactly one big happy family." He reached for her hand again, tracing his thumb down the lengths of her fingers. "I haven't talked to them since our wedding," he informed her, his tone grim. "I probably have the only father on the planet who could be unhappy about his son marrying a supermodel."
Stacy sank down beside him, clasping his hand in both of hers. "I've never been a supermodel," she corrected him softly, absently, her brain busy calculating how long they'd been married. Their wedding had been in May; she couldn't imagine going seven months without speaking to her parents or her sister.
He didn't seem to hear her, still lost in his own morose thoughts. "I don't know why I was surprised," he muttered derisively, "considering he hasn't approved of anything I've done since we first moved to New York, all those years ago."
Stacy's eyebrows shot up as she regarded her husband. "You mean – he didn't want you to be in the band?" she asked incredulously, her heart skipping a beat. If not for Kids Inc, they probably never would've met…!
Ryan shook his head. "Nope," he replied resolutely. "He wanted me to follow in his footsteps and go into the military. Even when I was twelve, he was adamant – music was a dead end, and pursuing it wouldn't amount to anything. Meaning, of course, that I wouldn't amount to anything."
He shrugged. "And maybe it goes back further than that. I mean, my family never really celebrated the holidays – any holiday, honestly. We moved around so much when I was a kid that it was hard to develop lasting traditions, I guess. My parents would ship me off to their parents' houses for Christmas, in fact, and I'd come home after the New Year – only to discover we were usually in a new home, too."
Stacy tightened her grip on her husband's hand. "That's terrible," she murmured sympathetically. "No wonder you hate travelling during the holidays!"
He gave her a wry smile. "Yeah," he sighed. "And to make matters worse – even that wasn't consistent. It depended on where we lived as to which set of grandparents I'd see. And, well, I guess it made sense, when I was really young – it's easier to move house without a toddler underfoot, I'm sure – but it kept happening, even when I got older."
He paused, pushing his free hand through his hair. "And then we moved here – and I was never sent away at Christmas again." His eyes met hers. "Part of it was because my mother's parents had passed away the year before we came to New York – and part of it was because we never moved again. My dad had taken a civilian job that he liked, so we settled here…and I guess by that point, it was too late to have our own family traditions for Christmas, or any other holiday during the year."
"We'd 'celebrate,'" he continued with a half-hearted shrug. "You know, the whole tree and presents and dinner stuff, but it wasn't ever anything special. When my Grandma Ruth moved in with us, she tried to revive her traditions, but they never really stuck…"
He trailed off, averting his eyes and swallowing hard as he gripped Stacy's hand. "…and then she died, and that was that."
He turned to face his wife again, his gaze finding hers. "Christmas has never meant anything but disappointment to me," he said softly, "so when I walked in and saw this place decked out, it just – argh. All of that shit just came rushing back, you know?" He shook his head. "The only people who gave a damn about me when I was a kid were Grandpa Herbie and Grandma Ruth, and after they died, it was like…I didn't really have any family, anymore."
Stacy's heart broke for the boy her husband had once been. His parents had always been cordial, if distant, towards her; it hurt her – it made her physically ache – to know they treated their own child with the same cool indifference.
"You do have family now," she reminded him gently, pressing the hand she held to the swell of her abdomen. "You have me, and our baby, and we love you unconditionally." She brushed her free hand through his glossy black hair, watching the strands fall back in place before trailing her fingers along the line of his temple. "You're an amazing man, Ryan, no matter what your father thinks."
He nodded absently, guiding his hand lightly over the curve of her belly. "I just hope I'll be a better parent than he was," he murmured.
"You will be," Stacy assured him, smoothing her fingertips over the crest of his cheek. "You can already give our baby something your parents never gave you."
His hand stilled on her midsection, his eyes finding hers with a curious look.
"Christmas," she clarified softly. "All of the holidays – we can make them special for our son or daughter. We're the parents now, so we get to make the rules," she added with a smile. "We get to make the traditions."
Ryan's gaze fell once more to her abdomen. "I'd like that," he replied quietly.
Stacy's arms slid around his shoulders and she leaned into him for a long moment, resting her forehead against his.
"When you were little, and spent Christmas with your grandparents," she inquired softly, "what sorts of things did you do with them?"
Ryan pulled away, a thoughtful expression settling over his features. "Grandpa Herbie and Grandma Ruth moved out to Colorado after they got married," he told her, "so whenever I'd stay with them, Grandpa Herbie and I would go out into the forest and scout for the best tree. It would take all afternoon, sometimes, but we didn't stop until we found the right one." A soft smile curved the corners of his mouth. "Grandma Ruth would make edible ornaments for it, which was pretty cool."
Stacy looked at him curiously. "Edible ornaments?" she echoed.
"Yeah," he nodded. "You know – candy canes, popcorn strings, that sort of thing. She'd make sugar cookie decorations, and sometimes I helped her frost them. We'd hang up these tiny baskets of chocolates, and little ropes of dried fruit, skewered like shish kebobs." He chuckled. "We'd eat the ornaments while we opened presents on Christmas morning. I can't remember a time I spent with them when I didn't end up sick from all that sugar."
Stacy grinned. "That sounds like fun," she mused. A wisp of an idea formed in the back of her mind, and she sat up straight, glancing around the room. Her eyes lit up when she noticed the little pad and pencil her husband kept at his bedside, to record any dream-inspired inspirations. She stretched across the mattress and plucked them up from their place on his night table. She quickly scribbled the idea on the pad, before rolling over and looking up expectantly. "What else should we do?" she asked brightly.
Ryan gazed at her with amusement as he considered her question. "Well, what are some of your family traditions?" he asked, inching back to sit beside her.
Stacy tapped the pencil against her chin. "We couldn't open our gifts until everyone was awake on Christmas morning," she said. "We used to have to wait until after Mass, actually, but our parents relented after the third or fourth time trying to put me and Renee back to bed at three a.m."
"We should definitely do that," Ryan laughed, taking the pad and pencil and adding the suggestion.
"My mother would buy us keepsake ornaments every year," Stacy continued, sitting up once more. "Beautiful porcelain ones with hand-painted designs. We had to hang them at the very top of the tree so they wouldn't break." She watched as her husband continued to write, adding ruefully, "I'm not sure how much that would clash with sugar cookies and candy canes."
He shrugged. "We make the rules, right?"
They smiled at each other.
Stacy took her husband's hand. "See?" she said softly, nodding towards the pad. "We'll figure out how to make it special and all our own." She laced her fingers through his. "We're a family now – small, but growing."
Ryan pressed a kiss to her lips, gentle and sweet. "Thank you for understanding," he whispered as he pulled away. "You have no idea how much you mean to me, and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to tell you in words."
Stacy flushed, tightening her grip on his hand, a wave of warm pleasure washing through her.
Ryan's eyes drifted back to their list. "There's just one problem," he murmured. "We'll never be able to put all of this together in three days."
"Oh, that's okay," Stacy replied with a shrug, drawing her husband's attention once more. "We have plenty of time to make plans – our baby won't be here until spring." She smiled softly as her free hand grazed her stomach. "This year isn't that important."
"Like hell!" Ryan balked, feigning surprise behind a wicked smile. "It's our first Christmas together as husband and wife – that isn't important to you?"
Stacy lifted a brow as she considered him. "It's also the last Christmas we'll have to ourselves for a good, long while," she reminded him drolly, brushing his hair from his brow once more.
"That only makes it all the more special," he reasoned triumphantly. "I'm going to miss having you all to myself."
A ripple of pleasure fluttered through her. "We don't even have a tree," she contended half-heartedly, unable to keep a straight face any longer.
He rolled his eyes. "I think we have enough pine around here to build our own," he teased, leaning back against the headboard and kicking off his boots.
Stacy gazed at him, tracing the lines of his face before letting her fingers drift into his hair. "I'm still getting you a gift," she informed him softly.
"You are a gift," he replied, catching her wandering hand and pressing a kiss against her palm.
His words stirred in her mind, bringing back their intimate moment in the foyer. Her eyes fell to his chest as she toyed with the buttons on his shirt. "Do you really think I'm beautiful?" she asked him softly, biting her lip.
"Yes," he replied warmly, his breath shallow under her touch.
"Even when I look like this?" she pressed, gazing down at herself with a frown. Stacy had always taken great pride in her appearance, working hard to stay lithe and toned despite the intense pressures that came with being a high fashion model. She couldn't help but feel like a sloppy cow now, uncomfortable with the physical changes to her body, restless and insecure thanks to her draught from work, and needy for reassurance after nearly a month alone, with nothing but her own critical reflection for company.
Ryan shifted beneath her distracted ministrations, reaching for her and smoothing his hands down the lengths of her arms. "What makes you beautiful isn't how you look, but who you are on the inside," he reminded her, his voice as tender as his touch. "I love you, Stacy, not because of how gorgeous you are, but because you're you, and that will never change."
He tugged her closer, drawing her into a light, lingering kiss. "Besides," he mused, his breath warm as it rushed past her lips, "the only thing I like more than seeing you in my clothes? Is seeing you out of them."
Her heart skipped a beat, prickles of heat and desire spiking her blood and pooling low in her abdomen. "I like a man who knows what he wants," she murmured, settling her hips astride his and leaning over him.
His lips curved into a satisfied smirk as her body sank into his. "And this man wants you," he replied with a growl, stroking the backs of her thighs and drawing her into the cradle of his pelvis. He arched his back and exhaled sharply when he felt the suggestive roll of her hips into his, before gathering her in his arms and muffling a moan into her shoulder. She raked her hands through his hair, drawing his mouth closer to hers, closing the gap with an urgent, needy kiss. She felt that old familiar surge of confidence as he responded eagerly to her touch, chasing her kiss with one of his own, parting her lips with his tongue. His grip on her was sure, firm, intense and intimate; his hips rose up to meet hers, leaving an indelible impression, erasing any and all doubt as to how much he still desired her.
"You're all I want," he whispered against her lips, sinking back into the mattress and bringing her down with him. "For Christmas, and forever."