Pairing : Guess.
Rating : PG, probably. Warning for bad similes, pagan chickens and sarcastic Welshmen.
Summary : Welshmen vs Englishmen. English 1, Welsh 0. Mother stopped play.
Disclaimer : I own nothing. No, really. I have ownership subclauses on my birth certificate. I belong to Starbucks. Characters, settings and lashings of infuriatingly implied slash belong to one S Cooper.
Secondary disclaimer : As always, the formatting is the fault of FFN's persistent anal retention when it comes to double line breaks. I've done my best.
It was a bitterly cold December morning. A fresh fall of snow during the night had covered the land in a thin mantle of white, as if someone had drawn a freshly-laundered sheet across the world; a morning frost had starched that sheet, making the snow crunch and crackle underfoot like sugar icing. Overhead the sun shone cleanly through crisp winter air, seeming to intensify rather than dispel the chill; far off in the west, a mass of building cloud threatened more snow to come. Icicles hung from the eaves of the barn, the sheds, the henhouse, sparkling in the clear light, shimmering until it seemed that living water flowed iridescent within the ice.
The chickens were mostly quiet, huddling on their perches or in nest boxes like little old women hunched against the cold; they shied away from the biting draught when she opened the door, muttering disconsolately amongst themselves, chiding her in their shrill voices for allowing such violation of their sanctuary.
They soon cheered up, though, when she up-ended the bucket of feed into the trough, crowding around until she could hardly move without treading on a warm feathered body. They resembled, she mused, nothing so much as a coven of elderly witches cackling over their cauldron.
She shook her head, smiling as she picked her way amongst the squabbling hens. Witches around a cauldron, indeed! What next? Foxes in Puritan uniforms? Ducking stools on the pond?
Around her the chickens squabbled contentedly, indignation long forgotten in the fight for a place at the trough. Stepping around the gaggle of feathered bodies, she took advantage of their preoccupation to feel around in the nesting boxes, and was rewarded with four eggs, still nestled fresh and warm amongst the straw.
Bundling the eggs inside her coat, she slipped quietly out of the door, careful to close it tightly against marauding foxes. Marauding Puritan foxes, she reminded herself with a smile.
A windblown scrap of ginger fur that had been nestling under the coop flicked an ear at her chuckle and yawned hugely, exposing a baby-pink mouth encircled by a set of wicked white teeth. A wriggle, and four paws appeared as if from nowhere, unfolding to heft a sleek, lithe body into the air, and dancing lightly over the packed snow to weave intricate patterns around her legs.
"Food's in the barn," she told it firmly, but the cat was not to be deterred, instead winding itself more tightly around her ankles and purring like a tractor engine. She stooped to let it rub its forehead against her fingers, scratching its nose until it went into paroxysms of ecstasy and rolled over, displaying a stomach of immaculately crimped white fur. Unfortunately, by leaving her ankles unhindered it had made a grave tactical error; she paused only long enough for the most cursory of stomach-rubs before making her escape across the yard. The back door stood ajar, letting a beckoning finger of yellow light caress the surface of the snow, promising warmth and shelter, and the somewhat awkward company of her youngest son and his best friend.
She paused in the doorway, considering as she stamped packed snow from her boots. It wasn't that she minded having Bran in the house; rather the reverse, in fact. After her own boisterous brood, the boy's reserved politeness was refreshing. And of course it wasn't anything to do with his colouring, heavens no. It was just...the awkwardness. Whenever she walked into the room, he'd...ice over. Draw back into himself, lose the warmth and animation she saw when he thought he and Will were alone. He was never impolite, just – distant. As though he was afraid of her, though she'd done everything she could to be friendly and put him at his ease.
Still, she reasoned, the family would start arriving in the next couple of days, leaving their lives in the cold outside world, drawn like swallows back to the warmer climes of her kitchen and the family house, which felt so empty these days with just her and Will. No James this year; he was still with that girlfriend of his, and this Christmas was his turn to meet her parents. No Mary; she was abroad, celebrating Christmas on an Australian beach instead of round the kitchen table. No Stephen, of course; heaven alone knew where he was. Somewhere in the Caribbean, last she'd heard. All right for some, she mused dryly, scraping the last of the melting snow from her boots onto the doormat. Still, the others would come, and fill the house with their talk and music and laughter, like it used to be, and drown out the silences of empty rooms and children grown. And the silences that lingered in the air between a son she hardly knew and a boy who looked at her from guarded yellow eyes, as if afraid she would scold him, or strike him.
She shook her head, slipping numb feet free of cold boots. That, surely, was just her imagination. Over-dramatic, as Max would say. She smiled at the memory – bittersweet, like so many since Roger had gone.
Max had taken the break-up remarkably well, considering he and...Jenny, that was it, he and Jenny had been together ever since college. It had been she who had taken it badly; coming so soon after Roger's death, and with her swallows flying the nest, more gone every year. It had felt too much like the loss of another family member. But he'd shrugged it off and smiled that devil-may-care smile. Good grief, Mum, he'd murmured, you're so overdramatic. Dad always said so. Her loss, anyway. And he raised one eyebrow so suggestively that they both dissolved into laughter, laughing at his folly and her melancholia.
Unnoticed in her sudden attack of nostalgia, the cat, delighted at this haven of warmth and light that had opened before it, stole past her on noiseless paws, to skulk behind the great oaken hall table and await its chance.
Oh, she thought, it would be good to have Max home again, to hug her and laugh at her and tell all of Roger's terrible old jokes. And Gwen, to fuss around her, to cluck over the fresh grey in her hair and set about dyeing it for her. And the twins, and Barbara. Not a full house, never a full house, not any more, but more than enough for one Christmas.
She put her boots away, with only a brief sad glance at the rows of unworn shoes, from Will's yellow Wellingtons, long outgrown, to Roger's ancient slippers. Time for a clear out, she thought, and ignored the cry of her heart.
Bran looked up guiltily as she entered the room, as though caught stealing biscuits from the oven, and her heart cried out again. She wanted to go to him, kneel by him, take him in her arms, wipe away that fear and suspicion from those eyes. She couldn't bear the sight of it. What did he think he'd done?
The spoon chinked gently against the side of the cup as the third heaped spoonful of sugar began its journey to dissolution. Will stirred vigorously, raising a noise like a model railway running at high speed, then laid the spoon down and took a long draught of the strong, sweet tea. Through the gap between his fringe and the rim of the cup, he saw one white eyebrow arch up until it was almost hidden behind disorderly strands of white hair.
"Three sugars! Duw, boy, you'll be bouncing off the walls."
Will tilted his head to one side, considering his response, and then stuck out his tongue gravely.
A smile quirked the corner of Bran's mouth. "Ah, this must be the famous English sense of humour I've heard so much about."
Will grinned, lowering his mug. "Shut up. It's for insulation."
"Against what?"Will flicked his head towards the window. "It's cold out there!"
"And lovely and warm in here, and here," Bran stated with finality, "I intend to stay."
"It's no use arguing, you know," Will chided, grinning across the table. "We're going, and that's that."
Bran wrapped his long fingers more tightly around his cup of coffee, scowling at him through the haze of steam. "With the temperature dropping, and the river icing over, and the snow about to fall? Oh yes, of course, what better time for a nice long walk in the countryside. And here was me thinking that only crazy folk went out at times like this."
Will, still grinning, shrugged. "Crazy folk and Englishmen."
"And one day I shall learn to tell the difference." Bran leaned back in his chair, taking a long drink from the steaming cup. "But I tell you, Englishman, you are not getting me out there in weather like this. Not in a million years."
"Weather like what?" Will gestured at the window again. "It's beautiful out there."
"Beautiful in Shetland too, it is, and you don't catch me going there."
Will shook his head. "You've no sense of adventure."
Bran raised an eyebrow, setting his cup down next to Will's, so close that the handles were nearly touching. "No sense of adventure, is it?" And as Will's hand went to his mug Bran deliberately reached for his, so that their fingers brushed together, cool white skin against warm brown skin. He held the touch for just a breath too long, a heartbeat longer than could have been accidental, and was rewarded by the sight of Will's grey eyes widening, his lips parting ever so slightly -
He snatched his hand away abruptly as the door opened, revealing a rather dishevelled-looking Mrs Stanton. Their eyes met, and he saw hers widen in surprise and – dismay? He felt the blood drain from his face, and knew she saw, and had seen.
The tableau held for a moment of breathless silence, and then a streak of tawny fur shot across the room and flung itself into Bran's lap. He flinched, then threw up his hands protectively as the cat thrust its face into his, digging its claws into his jumper and purring appreciatively.
He heard Will laugh, just a little shakily, and saw him lean forward in his chair, reaching out to the cat, which by now was kneading its paws into the hollow beneath Bran's collarbone and rubbing its forehead affectionately against his chin. Only the slightest tremor in his voice betrayed his relief at the breaking of the tension in the air.
"Hey, hey now, Tess, where did you come from?"
"Oh, gracious." Another pair of hands joined Will's, circling the cat's midriff and hoisting it unceremoniously off Bran's chest. Not deterred in the slightest, Tess twisted and sank her claws into the sleeve of Mrs Stanton's coat, pulling herself out of the loose grip and flowing like quicksilver up the attendant arm until she was comfortably ensconced in the inviting hollow between neck and shoulder.
Mrs Stanton chuckled, rubbing the cat's forehead ruefully with her knuckles. "I must've let her in by mistake. Crafty little girl, aren't you?" Then her face fell as she noticed Bran brushing fastidiously at his black jumper and its fresh coating of ginger and white cat hair. "Oh, I'm sorry, love. Did she make a mess?"
"Ugh," Bran muttered dryly, wrinkling his nose. "I'll never be clean again."
Will snorted and punched him on the arm. "Christ, don't be so melodramatic. It's only cat hair, for heavens' sake."
Bran glowered at him, downed the last of his coffee, and pushed his chair back from the table. "I'm going to get changed," he announced shortly, making for the door.
"Oh, that's right!" Will was suddenly all smiles, beaming at his mother. "Bran and I are going for a walk."
"No –" But he got no further. Mrs Stanton was already pulling dishes out of the nearest cupboard, hunting for something to hold cat food, and the clangour of crockery drowned out his indignant demurral.
"Oh, that'll be nice, love. Where're you going?"
Behind his mother's back, Will leered triumphantly at an incensed Bran. "Just down and along the river, mum; thought we might circle round and come back along Court Lane."
"Good idea, love." Mrs Stanton had found a bowl and was already chopping up some meat from the day before's dinner, while Tess twined joyfully around her legs. "Will you want something to eat when you get back?"
"That'd be nice – see you later, Mum!" Will yelled as he raced out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He gained the landing just in time to grin at Bran's retreating back as the Welsh boy disappeared into his room, defeated, to find some warmer clothes.
"' With the temperature dropping, and the river icing over,'" he quoted, and was rewarded with a Welsh expletive and a loud bang as the door slammed in his face. Laughing, he crossed the landing, pulling open his own door and commencing the search for a decent pullover and some thick socks.
In the kitchen, Alice Stanton smiled, and bent to tickle Tess's ears. It was so long since this house had heard a good argument.