a Christmas fanfic in five vignettes
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I'll Be Home for Christmas
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I'll be home for ChristmasIf only in my dreams…
She propped her feet on the windowsill lazily, watching the pale flurries that drifted just as lazily past the sleek glass of the window. Blue eyes half-closed, fingers idly stroking the soft fringe of a pillow clasped across her swollen belly, Greta felt the warmth of personal contentment as the television whispered promises of a white Christmas and previews of the holiday films in theatres. A snippet of Jimmy Stewart preceded a commercial and she smiled, satisfied as she reached over to tap the 'power' button on the remote.
She could not remember the last time she had felt so full – not, she thought with some small sadness, since before Billy had changed. Shifting her leg, she yawned and wriggled slightly so her head was pillowed better by the afghan on the couch, still half-watching the snow falling as she thought of past Christmases and the bittersweet presence of such thoughts; the background was a murmur, Ray's tenor voice on the phone with her mother, two dear people, and oh she felt as though she could close her eyes and sleep forever, happy and filled to bursting with Christmas and the baby.
"Five o'clock," he announced off-handedly from the kitchen, as the sound of a pot clanking noisily in the sink fluttered out of the fluorescence. "Your mother'll try to catch the five o'clock flight out of Chicago if the weather holds; she should be here about nine, barring blizzards or alien attack." He made a wry, amused noise and the pot jangled again. "Although, technically, I could get her myself if the weather gets to bad. Now, if aliens attack, that would be a little more difficult, especially if it's snowing in which case I'd be running without recharge--"
She smiled again on the couch, curling her toes along the windowsill. "You're being goofy again," she reminded him, sounding pleased. "And remember, even if aliens do attack, you swore we'd have a horrible mundane Christmas." Unspoken, and affectionate, threat underlined her words. "Just tell them your wife works for Darkseid, and forget to mention the rest of the story."
Balancing a tray with his palm as something sweet-smelling simmered in the pot on the stove, Ray grinned at her, having taken leave of the kitchen. "Like when we were playing tennis and the ball went through you?" he noted, sliding his bare feet through the carpeting, pajamas lapping over his heels. "Or the part where you tried to kill me and our friends? Because details might slip and I'm not sure what I could keep quiet, unless I get proper incentive." His green eyes were far too bright for his serious expression, and she wrinkled her nose at him, pointedly tapping her fingers over the swell of her belly.
"No," she scolded. "You're being bad." He had the grace to feign a sheepish look, eyes still glittering with amusement. "What do you have on the tray?"
"Why should I show that to you?" Ray countered, face perfectly straight. "After all, you don't care if the aliens gather incriminating information from me or use me to make a weather-control device to make it blizzard so your mother can't make it here, and since you won't let me do anything non-mundane on Christmas I can't do anything to stop it." He paused. "Gingerbread," he conceded, and tilted the tray at her.
"Gingerbread!" she said cheerily, and bent her arms carefully to clasp two of the slightly misshapen man-figures between forefinger and thumb. "I love gingerbread," she chattered, mood switching painfully swiftly. "It's sugary and spicy, and if you eat it quick enough, it's still gooey and it makes me think of all sorts of Christmas things." She popped the broken head of one of the men into her mouth promptly, chewing thoughtfully as she looked appraisingly at him; he adopted a contemplative expression, drumming his fingers on the metal.
"Did," she began mock-severely, shaking the headless gingerbread man at him in comical threat, "you sneak gingerbread men in the kitchen? Because you're being silly, and you're usually very--"
"Mature?" he suggested. "Dashingly intelligent? Bright?"
Greta squinted at him and shook the decapitated man one last time, for good measure and as retribution for the poorly chosen pun. "Not exactly," she pronounced clearly. "Though if you prefer thinking like that, lovely. You're still not going to do anything superheroic before the twenty-sixth."
Ray carefully seated himself on the armrest of the couch, settling the tray of gingerbread on the coffee table as he studied his small wife. "Aren't you being selfish?" he commented neutrally. "After all, if the world's on the verge of a wintry apocalypse, hypothetical aliens or no…"
She smiled, dreamily gazing at the snowflakes fluttering down in a soft wave from the grey sky, the pale light waning. "Nothing will go wrong," she said, with subtle conviction. Nibbling at the clumsily elongated arm of the second gingerbread man, she wiggled her toes and splayed her fingers over her belly, palm moving with the unseen child's kick. "It'll be a beautiful white Christmas, with Mom, and the baby almost here, and you, and me."
His hand joined hers, filling the gaps between her slim fingers with his larger ones to feel the symbiotic warmth within. "Well," he said softly, "all right. If you're so sure." Leaning forward, resting his golden-red head on the couch's sturdy back, he too watched the drifting snow weaving the dream of home, the dream of Christmas, the dream of warmth beneath their hands.
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Notes: Feel the fluff, baby.
Continuity: Future-set what-if; follows (by several months) my Ray x Greta fanfic, Hello Darkness.
Disclaimer: I don't own Greta Hayes, Ray Terrill, or any related (or unrelated, for that matter) DCU characters. Yay for me!
Feedback: *bats eyes cutely*