disclaimed

...

It is six-oh-seven in the morning, and Scott McCall wakes up to the sound of feet in the hallway. For a moment, he freezes, panicked, wondering what's wrong, before he remembers. Grinning, he reaches over and shakes his wife shoulder, whispering, "Countdown to launch."

He hears a groan, muffled by the pillow that Allison is burying her face in at the moment.

"Ten…"

"I will pay you to stop."

"Nine…"

"I will pay you in sexual favors."

"Tempting. Eight…"

The footsteps grow closer, and he can hear their daughter's heartbeat thumping, can tell that she's ecstatic, can tell that she's hesitating, wondering if she should wake them.

"You know what would be a fantastic Christmas present?" Allison asks, turning her face towards to wall to speak clearly.

"What? Seven, by the way."

"If you stopped this godforsaken countdown."

"Six."

"I'm selling your bike."

"Five."

"I'm selling the car."

"Four."

"Oh Christ, I'm awake," she finally huffs, albeit good-naturedly, rolling onto her back.

"Three. Should we pretend to be asleep?"

Allison rolls her eyes, nodding her head with a bit of a smirk. "You're a dork," she murmurs as they arranged themselves into the most natural sleeping positions they can. Scott presses two fingers into his wife's side when they're settled, and a moment later lowers one.

And then—the door to their bedroom creaks open. It's silent for a moment, and he wonders if she decided to turn back; if she decided to let her parents sleep for an hour or two more. But then there's suddenly a small body cannonballing into the bed, an elbow digging into his ribs, a small hand on his chest.

Both he and Allison jerk from the shock, and their daughter, Izzy, shouts, "Get up, it's CHRISTMAS!"

He grimaces, his super-hearing especially unhelpful when there's a three year old yelling approximately eight inches away from his ear, but Allison laughs and wraps their daughter in her arms, tucking her between them and asking, "I don't know, baby, I don't think it's Christmas. Is it Christmas, Scott?"

Izzy's head swivels towards him, her eyes wide, imploring, begging for him to agree with her. He thinks it's because she has her mother's eyes—he was planning on playing along for a bit, but he caves. "Well, Allison, yesterday was the twenty-fourth…"

She gasps, "Was it?"

Izzy rolls onto her side, tucking her head in the crook of her mother's neck, and she says happily, "It was! Mommy, you're silly."

Allison rolls her eyes at her husband, murmuring, "I am, am I?"

Izzy nods, before seeming to remember the reason she was there. She squirms away from her mother, kicking her father in the gut as she scooches down to the foot of the bed, clambering down even as Scott reaches out to help her, worried that she'll fall and hurt herself.

She dashes to the doorway, pausing to say as she bounces on the balls of her feet, "Come on, there are presents!"

"We're coming," he says, laughing at his daughter's eagerness.

Allison tacks on, "Five minutes, okay?"

Izzy sighs impatiently, pushing her hair out of her eyes with a chubby baby hand. Another sigh, and she runs off, towards the stairs this time, and Scott calls after her, "Don't go downstairs yet!" There's no response, just uneven breathing of an excited preschooler, and he prompts, "Isabelle?"

"Okay, Daddy. I stay here."

He hears her plop down on the top step, and he can practically see the look on her face. The beds dips, and he glances up to see Allison grinning at him. "C'mon," she prompts, poking his shoulder. "There are presents."

Four and a half minutes later, Allison has a camera in her hand and Scott's swapped his normal sleep shirt for a red one, with a snowman on it. When they emerge, Izzy jumps up from her perch, her eyes alight.

Before she opens her mouth, Scott tells her, "Go."

She almost falls on the way down the stairs, much to the chagrin of her parents, who follow her, Allison first with the camera held in front to capture the first photo. Maybe they're being a little crazy about this—but last Christmas, Izzy had the flu and, needless to say, the magic wasn't quite there. The Christmas before that, she had been a baby, more interested in the wrapping paper and playing with her mother's hair than her presents.

Maybe they are being a bit crazy, but this will probably be their daughter's first concrete Christmas memory, and they want it documented.

Izzy squeals as she rounds the corner to the living room, shaking with excitement. She sort of does a dive into the carpet—thank god it's not hardwood—and grabs hold of the only unwrapped thing there; a giant stuffed panda that she's been talking about for months.

Allison laughs, taking as many pictures as she can before Izzy moves on, and Scott steps up behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist. She glances at him, grinning in an intolerably adorable way, and he kisses her deeply, murmuring, "Merry Christmas."

...

Surrounded by the carnage of their daughter's war on wrapping paper, Allison smiles.

Izzy's curled up in her lap on the couch, dozing in preparation for Christmas, part deux, when the rest of the family comes over to open more presents and eat. Without meaning to, Allison starts taking a headcount—Stiles, Lydia and Claudia; Melissa and John; Derek, Laila, the twins; Isaac and Cora; Aidan and Sarah; Ethan, Danny, and Elsie; her own father—and wondering if they're going to have enough food. Feeding ten werewolves is not a task that is easily accomplished, and now she's a little more than worried.

"Dinner's going to be fine," Scott calls from the kitchen.

Smirking, Allison asks, "How'd you know I was thinking about that?"

"I can tell when you're freaking out."

She rolls her eyes. "Not freaking out. Just appropriately nervous."

Izzy shifts in her arms, twisting some of her mother's shirt up into her fist. Her daughter's mouth is slack in sleep, her little face peaceful.

Scott emerges from the kitchen, some cinnamon icing on his chin, and says, "It'll be fine. It'll be more than fine! It will be perfect."

Allison casts her husband a doubtful look. Perfect is a little much to expect from the first Christmas dinner they host. But she appreciates his optimism never-ending.

"You've got a little—," she gestures to her chin, to show him where the icing is.

"Really? I thought I'd gotten it all off."

As Scott wipes his face, Allison asks, "Is there any icing on the rolls?"

"Ha ha. I slave away in the kitchen for hours—."

"Fifteen minutes."

"Hours, and you doubt my abilities. I'm hurt, Allison. I really am."

He fake sobs all the way back into the kitchen, before reappearing with food on a tray. Izzy stirs when she smells the bacon. Allison expects her to move, but she stays on her mother's lap, holding her plate in her lap as Scott turns on the television. A Christmas Story is just starting, and Allison eats around her child.

This was not the Christmas she ever pictured for herself ten years ago—so many people have died but so many have been born, nieces and nephews, thanks to pack family dynamics; she's married and a mother and things are not how she pictured them.

They're better.

fin

Merry Christmas all of y'all that celebrate! This is my little holiday offering to you, my lovelies. I hope you liked it.