A/N: Fluffy one-shot, because tis the Season after all. Happy holidays everybody!
Christmas 1981
She was his, he thought, and he couldn't help the tiny bubble of joy and relief that quivered inside his belly. The fire in the grate was bathing him in warmth - or perhaps that was just the feeling of her weight pressed against his chest.
The apartment was only minimally decorated for Christmas, because she didn't own a lot in the way of tinsel, fairy lights or holly wreaths. They'd gone to the store earlier and bought a strand of lights, and she'd dug up the fake tree that she'd bought the year before. They'd spent a pleasant few hours squabbling over where to put it, and improvising tree decorations to supplement her meager collection. The tree looked distinctly odd, he thought, covered as it was in some scraggly strands of tinsel, a number of popcorn garlands, the tree ornaments saved from Florence's childhood, and some foldout paper angels made out of colored packing crepe. Neither of them were particularly gifted creatively, yet the tree had a certain charm to it, with its mishmash of decorations. They worked together unexpectedly well. Kind of like me and Florence, he thought involuntarily, then promptly mentally vomited at such maudlin sentimentality. Must be the Christmas season putting such thoughts into his head.
They'd bought a star for the top. "You have to have a star on top," he'd insisted at her inquiring look, and she'd smirked, discreetly rolling her eyes at him when she'd thought he wasn't looking.
"You're such a child," she muttered.
"Because of my sense of innocent wonder?" He asked mischievously. Surprisingly, her eyes warmed a little and a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Well.. maybe because of that as well."
The star had gone into the shopping cart. He'd also insisted on buying a sprig of mistletoe, which he'd contrived to dangle from the ceiling by means of some twine and a piece of tape. It looked out of place against the bare white walls; the only other piece of decoration in the room apart from the tree was the strand of white lights around the mantelpiece, but when she pointed this out (when did she become such an authority on interior design anyway?) he'd again insisted, saying it was "romantic."
"If by romantic you mean painfully cheesy, I agree," she returned smartly, but she left it up. And she let him steal six kisses under it already. Not that he was counting or anything.
He'd also asked her if he could prepare the old fireplace in the living room for a fire, another touch meant to inspire a festive mood. Her apartment, in an old Victorian row house in London, had a large and welcoming hearth, but it looked like it hadn't been used in years.
"If you burn down my apartment, I'm going to pack you on the first flight back to New York," she threatened, then her eyes lit up with amusement. "And then I'll come and take over your place there. You won't be able to get rid of me!" He didn't tell her that her threat really wasn't as menacing as she seemed to imagine; instead he got to work cleaning the thing. Sweeping out hearths and unblocking flues was one thing he excelled at, so before too long there was a merry blaze crackling away.
Earlier in the evening a group of carollers had come by the house. He had been ready to tell them to leave and shut the door in their faces, but she'd come down in his wake and stopped him. They listened to a few songs, and she'd slipped her arms around his waist, pressing her face into his shoulder. He'd had the impression that the singers were pretty good, but after that point he stopped really listening.
Now they were both cuddled up on her couch ("Sofa!" she said insistently, but was utterly unable to provide him with an explanation of the difference). They were nursing glasses full of hot mulled wine, and watching some Christmas special on her tiny black and white television. His attention wandered between the movie, the crackling fire, and the small movements of her tiny frame as she rested against him, her head on his chest. Apparently of their own accord, her hands came up to stroke and play with his fingers as they rested on her stomach, and then, with a soft sigh, she turned her face and rubbed her cheek against his chest. And that's when he knew - finally, she was his again.
Check and mate. Endgame accomplished.