Author: Snarkcasm
Rating: Teen
Summary: Christmus with the Farrellys
Chapter Summary: Darlingharbour and I were upset that there wasn't any Christian/Sheamus stories out there (if there are, send me links!), so I decided on writing this fluffy piece. MERRY CHRISTMUS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
Warning(s): Don't ask questions, just read.
Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to the WWE or the wrestlers mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.
Author's Note: Honestly, I think finals finally succeeded in breaking my spirit. Also my brain.

Christmus with the Farrellys

Jay eyes the suspiciously gelatinous dish with distrust. No matter how many times he had been told that it was edible, he is not putting that on his plate.

"Are ya not going to try Great Aunt Millie's plum puddin'?"

Jay shifts awkwardly on his crutches, balancing his plate in the crook of his elbow. He sends a decidedly unimpressed look—his Bitchface Stephen liked to say—over his shoulder. "Millie loves me." It's true. Jay had thought spending Christmas with Stephen's extended, supremely Irish Catholic family would be torture a plenty and full of awkwardness, but all the women had cooed when he shuffled up the stairs in his crutches and ankle boot. Stephen's mom, Fíona, pinched his cheeks and called him a puppy to the poorly-stifled laughter of someone who was clearly not getting any until the new year.

While the women had flocked towards him, the Farrelly males had been standoffish. Jay tried to mask his discomfort by talking to Stephen's mum and sisters and ignoring the voices that were screaming at him to get the hell out of dodge before he got an Irish ass kicking. Stephen's dad, a mountain of a man named Mark, had knocked his beefy hand into Jay's shoulder. Jay tensed, figuring that the former bodybuilder wanted to kill him for corrupting his youngest, but Mark just laughed, giving his son's significant other his boisterous approval. From the corner of his eye, Jay saw Stephen relax. He linked their hands together in a show of support.

From there on in, it was smooth sailing…if you didn't count Stephen's nieces and nephews who single-mindedly deemed the Canadian wrestler the greatest jungle gym in the world. Surrounded by so much noise, Jay can't help but beam. This was shaping up to be his greatest Christmas ever; even greater than the time he and Adam got bb guns. Then, the greatest thing in the world happened: Stephen's mom guilt-tripped him into singing a traditional Christmas carol. Muzzy with hot cocoa, Jay had to admit his boyfriend's voice was…angelic.

But, seriously, he is not eating that pudding, no matter what Great Aunt Millie said or did. He pokes at it with a spoon and yelps when the thing moved. Stephen, having went on ahead in line, ambles over with his own plate loaded with snacks, one bushy eyebrow raised skeptically.

"It ain't going bite cha, love."

"That's what you say." No, Jay isn't a teenage girl, and no, he doesn't feel a warmth in his gut at the endearment. What he does do, however, is lightly knock the end of his crutches into Stephen's foot to get to the impressive array of alcohol.

Bridget, Stephen's eight-year-old niece, bounds up to him, splaying out her arms and legs. "Should you be havin' alcohol?" she asks, looking over her oversized glasses. The freckles dotting the bridge of her nose and her frazzled red hair should belie her attempts to act like an adult, but she's so stern—so Stephen—that Jay just gapes. He can feel Stephen holding in his laughter and 'accidentally' thwacks him in the gut.

Bridget leaves as soon as Jay pinky promises not to touch the alcohol. He rounds on Stephen, whose face is still red from good cheer even though he's clutching his abdomen. "Did you seriously sic your niece on me?"

"…You really shouldn't be havin' whiskey with your meds—"

Jay throws his free hand up. "Great, I'm getting a lecture on drinking from an Irishman." Instead of getting mad, Stephen rolls his eyes and tugs Jay away from the banquet and onto a couch, lifting up the injured Superstar's ankle boot and gently removing it. Jay shovels a piece of soda bread into his mouth with a small grunt as the Velcro'ed plastic bumps against his still out-of-commission ankle.

"Sorry," says Stephen, reflexive, as he has been saying ever since Brussels, and Jay's getting a little tired of it. But who can complain during free foot rubs? It'll take someone bitchier than Jay, that's for sure, as the blond melts against the couch cushions.

He can feel wonderfully blunt fingers skim across the mottled landscape of his foot, and he wiggles it impatiently. "'m fine, Farrelly. But I swear on the little baby Jesus, that if you don't give me a foot massage right now, there will be no sex ever."

Stephen grins, naughty but oh-so-nice, eyes even greener against the emerald of his handmade Christmas sweater. His family's in the next room, the dining room; he can hear their laughter as clear as day. It takes all he has to tamper down on the urge to crawl into Stephen's lap and collect his present early. Instead, he gives his ankle a pointed look and raises an eyebrow.

When Stephen's fingers really get to work, Jay moans and burrows into his own handmade Christmas sweater. Honestly, Stephen could have been a professional, and Jay reveled in it. And then Stephen hits the spot where Jay swore that if he were a cat, he would be purring. The Canadian immediately revisits the whole 'no-sex' thing by tugging the Celtic Warrior down for a kiss. Stephen's wonderful fingers drag lightly down his ribs, and Jay squirms, his smile almost breaking the sweet, wet slide of their lips.

"Stíofán, Liam," Fíona calls from the living room. Both men know a 'mom call' when they hear it, and they scramble up—Stephen hurrying to put Jay's boot back on, and Jay smoothing down their Christmas sweaters, face ablaze—to heed it. Stephen pulls out Jay's seat like the gentlemen he is, and Jay plonks down, moving his crutches under his seat.

Moira, the youngest of Stephen's three sisters, moves next to him with a gleam in her eye as Stephen sets down a single candle in the window. "Stephen's the youngest, so he has to light it," she explains, her grin teasing, "Isn't that right, Beaker?" Jay can tell Stephen's behind him—his radar is finely tuned—and laughs as Stephen makes a rude noise before kissing Jay on the side of the head and settling down on Jay's right.

Later that night, full of goose and spiced beef and good cheer, Jay curls into Stephen, entwining their hands together. "Thanks," he whispers. Thanks for letting me spend Christmas with you. Thanks for the foot massage. Thanks for loving me. If only he wasn't such a coward.

Stephen's face breaks out into a soft smile, almost as if he heard everything Jay couldn't say. "You're welcome, a ghrá mo chroí."

"What does that mean?" Jay asks, curious at the Gaelic naturally flowing from his lover's lips. Ah hraw muh hree, he mouths the words, tongue clumsy with a language he doesn't know.

Stephen doesn't answer; instead, he looks up to the bedpost where someone had tied a sprig of mistletoe. "Happy Christmas, Jay."

"Merry Christmas, Stephen."

/

A/N: A Ghrá mo Chroí means "my heart's beloved", "my darling". Don't look at me like that. Occasionally, I can be a fluffwhore, and it's the holidays!