In Time For Christmas
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, and although they might tolerate me when I'm letting them have hot, borderline rough sex, they certainly don't like me as much when I'm randomly killing them off. XD
Summary: It's hard, just waiting like this, but she's not really worried. She knows that one way or another, he'll be back in time for Christmas.
At half past five on Christmas Eve, he leaves abruptly, vanishes into the gathering twilight, all at once unable to bear for another moment the shabby decorations, and the all those candles reflecting warm and mellow in her eyes because they don't have power right now, and the Christmas carols she's been singing for the past week.
Especially that one.
Merry Christmas to all who may dwell here,
Merry Christmas, if even just one,
May the joy of the season surround you,
Merry Christmas, with love.
The last thing he wants to hear about is the joy of the season, and whenever he thinks about love in relation to her, it brings up something distantly akin to guilt, and something else not unpleasant but not entirely comfortable.
And she has no business, being so happy with so little, with virtual imprisonment and shabby furniture and illiterate neighbours, when she deserves so much more. Her contentment seems to mock his failure to give her more.
But he can't bring himself to take the warm candlelight from her eyes entirely, threaten bodily harm if he hears another note from her, in essence spoil her fun, so he goes.
As he passes a grinning snowman that he suspects was not the work of any of the children in town, he can't help but smile.
Trust her to drag him, kicking and screaming, into Christmas.
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She glances worriedly after him from the kitchen window, but doesn't try to stop him. He's done this before, left without a word when he just needed some time, and he's not usually long.
In the meantime, she has plenty to keep her busy, the decorating that he flatly refused to help her finish, and baking the rest of the cookies, and wrapping the little trinkets that are nothing to what she gave him last year but still give her a little thrill of pride whenever she looks at them.
And by the time she's finished, he'll be back, and they'll have Christmas.
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At a quarter past six on Christmas Eve, she drops the last of the little coloured glass balls onto the little fir tree casting its spicy scent through the house, peeks quickly at the little pecan pie she's comfortably certain he'll enjoy, and goes back to peering anxiously out the window.
He's been gone so long.
She knows he must have a reason; he always does, and if he doesn't always tell her, that's only because it isn't important, and he only tells her the important things.
Still, even though she can't help but wish he would deem it worth telling her when he decided to disappear for nearly an hour, can't help but wish that she had told him Merry Christmas earlier just in case, she knows she shouldn't worry.
There's still a long time until Christmas.
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At half past six on Christmas Eve, anxious turns to terrified when she hears a noise from upstairs, when she didn't hear him come in and he doesn't even go upstairs unless he has to.
Of course there's nothing so useful as a gun within easy reach, so she takes the poker from the fireplace instead, inches silently upstairs, pulse beating wildly to her fingertips.
The sound again, and somewhere at the back of her mind, where the little girl who expects the best still exists, she thinks, absurdly, that maybe it's the reindeer on the roof.
A third time, and it takes all her willpower to continue upstairs, feeble weapon in hand instead of turning and bolting from the house to find Joker and get far, far away.
At the top of the stairs, footsteps at the end of the hall and she turns just in time to see a dim shape in the shadows before her vision erupts in bright red agony
She can't make out why she's on the floor, curled up tightly around where all that blood is coming from, or why her ears are still ringing from a sharp sound.
Now the shapes fluttering around her are dim and white, and like Christmas angels, even though their voices, hollow and echoey and from a long, long way up, are grumpy and disappointed and angels are supposed to sound tranquil and beautiful.
She turns to look at what on earth she's still holding, only manages to raise the poker a little off the ground before the sole of a heavy boot slams down on her wrist, and it still doesn't make sense why her hand is hurting so much or why that cry of pain sounded so much like her.
They retreat again, laughing, and she catches something that sounds like let him find her here.
A little present for him. There's even red on the packaging; you know, for Christmas.
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At a quarter to seven, she crawls, with her last bit of strength, into the big plushy armchair next to the Christmas tree.
Everything is hazy and blurred and spinning oddly as she curls up like a little girl waiting for Santa and, with her good hand, pulls Joker's nice grey wool cardigan around her shoulders. He won't mind – he likes her in his clothes. And it's soft and cozy and smells like him, and it makes the pain a little less.
The fire is so nice and warm, and the lights on the tree are so pretty, and she still can't think from that something sharp and searing, like the worst cramps she's ever had, and it would be so nice to just drift off to sleep where it won't matter, but she can't, because there's something very important she forgot to tell him before he left.
If she can just wait until he comes back, then she can go to sleep, but she has to stay awake until then.
It's sort of a little funny; they live together, spend every day together, and she still hasn't wished him a Merry Christmas.
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Even before he reaches the house, he can feel something wrong. A quick check of his watch told him that he'd lost all track of time, but she still hasn't come to find him, and as he starts up the front walk, hasn't run to meet him with an ecstatically relieved hug like the last time he stayed away for too long.
His steps quicken, and his attention to detail dulls so that he doesn't notice the soft noises upstairs, doesn't notice anything except the little splashes of blood over the carpet into the den.
A quick stride becomes a sprint when he notices a little blonde shape curled up next to the Christmas tree, and his sharp demand of what's going on turns to a horrified grimace when he notices the blood staining through her blouse and dribbling to the floor.
Bad knee or not, he's crouched on the floor, mind already piecing together where he can take her and how he can get her there before the worst happens.
"M'glad you're back," she mutters thickly, smiling weakly but still adoring, eyes starting to dim. He tries to quiet her, but she continues as he gathers her into his arms. "Never wished you Merry Christmas."
He makes an incredulous noise, a little like a laugh and closer to teary than he'd ever admit, and then whips around at the thud of several sets of footsteps behind him.
There are too many to fight off, and somehow, with her going happily about dying inches away, he doesn't quite have the energy to bargain for his life.
And he flatly refuses to run.
So instead, he turns his back on the unknowns that must be from some group they made very angry, brushes a light kiss over her forehead, and promises her that he'll be there soon.
The soft murmur is swallowed up by the deafening noise of weapons firing, but from the radiant joy in her eyes, she understands.
They'll meet in time for Christmas.