December 23, 2005, 1145 AM, Asher's Childhood Home, Switzerland
Freshly scrubbed (with the bathtub and shower stall now bearing the mark of their love) and warmly dressed, it was almost lunchtime when Asher and Richie had finally trekked to the hilltop. There, as Asher had predicted, they found a tree of perfection. Now, safe again in the back parlor (for it was there they decided to erect the tree), to the soft sounds of another discovered record, they decorated the tree.
There was an art to tree-decorating. Richie had learned this from Tessa, when he had celebrated his first Christmas with her and Duncan. Joe had joined them. As had Angie. It had been the first Christmas he had been sorry for when it ended. But Asher it seemed, had always had beautiful Christmases, and had learned the knack of tree-decorating from childhood. Before she could walk, most likely.
Richie took a step back from the tree to admire the work. In the boxes, they had found antique ornament keepsakes, glass balls of every shape, size and color, strings and strings of lights, silver tinsel, some half-burned candles, and a star, for the top.
"Guess he never threw anything away after we died," Asher had commented bitterly when they had first opened the boxes. Richie did not need to ask who 'he' was, but only reached over the box to squeeze her hand. Her mood had brightened in the decorating.
It took close to two hours for them to decorate the tree. Asher had dragged a small ladder from some hidden corner so they could reach the top. Asher smiled when Richie stepped down from the ladder again, having placed the star on top.
"It is perfect," she breathed.
"You are perfect." He leaned over to kiss her, the first touch of his lips soft, but the kiss quickly deepening into something more passionate. It was several moments before they finally drew apart, with Richie's hand having slipped underneath Asher's sweater, and Asher hands having unzipped his fly. "Floor or couch?" he whispered, his voice and breath ragged.
"Couch," she whispered, to which Richie nodded. They stumbled the few feet to the couch, lips already locked again.
---------------------------------------
Having fixed their clothes again, and Asher having run her fingers through her now slightly tangled hair; they were now in the kitchen. It was late afternoon, and Richie stood over the stove, cooking the soup they had bought at the store, while warming the bread left over from last night in the oven. Asher had decided to mull the cider they had bought.
"Must be the air," Richie commented.
"What?"
"Well, just, twice last night in bed, this morning in the shower, just now on the couch. Must be something in the air."
"Could be you." She smiled devilishly, to which Richie groaned. "Must be," she added, but Richie only groaned again. "Try this. Need more cinnamon, or no?"
"No." He licked the spoon clean.
Asher nodded, removing the pot from the stove. "Should be cool to have some with the soup. I'll change the record. Any requests?"
"Whatever you find. I haven't heard of most of these people."
"That's because you had no culture until Mac, and he had too many years to account for," she teased. Richie playfully swatted her arm as she walked out.
It was five minutes later, when a new record began to waft through the downstairs of the house, when Richie removed the clam chowder from the stove and the bread from the oven, when someone knocked on the front door. Richie looked to Asher, and Asher looked to Richie.
"You expecting someone, Asher?"
"No, are you?"
"No. Do you we still need to answer it?"
"Unfortunately. You want to get it?"
"Sure," Richie sighed regretfully. He kissed Asher's mouth. "Set the table then?" To which Asher nodded.
The knock came again. "I'm coming, I'm coming," yelled Richie. He unlocked the door, opened it, a surprised expression crossing his face. He quickly masked it. "Clarke," he acknowledged. "Why are you here?"
"Ryan. Good to see you too. I have business here. With Asher." He smiled, nose delicately smelling the air. "Something smells good. Seems I made it in time for dinner."
He pushed his way past Richie, arms buried in the pockets of his coat, stepping silently into the kitchen. "Hello, Asher," he spoke. Richie stood helplessly behind him, loss to what he should do.
Freshly scrubbed (with the bathtub and shower stall now bearing the mark of their love) and warmly dressed, it was almost lunchtime when Asher and Richie had finally trekked to the hilltop. There, as Asher had predicted, they found a tree of perfection. Now, safe again in the back parlor (for it was there they decided to erect the tree), to the soft sounds of another discovered record, they decorated the tree.
There was an art to tree-decorating. Richie had learned this from Tessa, when he had celebrated his first Christmas with her and Duncan. Joe had joined them. As had Angie. It had been the first Christmas he had been sorry for when it ended. But Asher it seemed, had always had beautiful Christmases, and had learned the knack of tree-decorating from childhood. Before she could walk, most likely.
Richie took a step back from the tree to admire the work. In the boxes, they had found antique ornament keepsakes, glass balls of every shape, size and color, strings and strings of lights, silver tinsel, some half-burned candles, and a star, for the top.
"Guess he never threw anything away after we died," Asher had commented bitterly when they had first opened the boxes. Richie did not need to ask who 'he' was, but only reached over the box to squeeze her hand. Her mood had brightened in the decorating.
It took close to two hours for them to decorate the tree. Asher had dragged a small ladder from some hidden corner so they could reach the top. Asher smiled when Richie stepped down from the ladder again, having placed the star on top.
"It is perfect," she breathed.
"You are perfect." He leaned over to kiss her, the first touch of his lips soft, but the kiss quickly deepening into something more passionate. It was several moments before they finally drew apart, with Richie's hand having slipped underneath Asher's sweater, and Asher hands having unzipped his fly. "Floor or couch?" he whispered, his voice and breath ragged.
"Couch," she whispered, to which Richie nodded. They stumbled the few feet to the couch, lips already locked again.
---------------------------------------
Having fixed their clothes again, and Asher having run her fingers through her now slightly tangled hair; they were now in the kitchen. It was late afternoon, and Richie stood over the stove, cooking the soup they had bought at the store, while warming the bread left over from last night in the oven. Asher had decided to mull the cider they had bought.
"Must be the air," Richie commented.
"What?"
"Well, just, twice last night in bed, this morning in the shower, just now on the couch. Must be something in the air."
"Could be you." She smiled devilishly, to which Richie groaned. "Must be," she added, but Richie only groaned again. "Try this. Need more cinnamon, or no?"
"No." He licked the spoon clean.
Asher nodded, removing the pot from the stove. "Should be cool to have some with the soup. I'll change the record. Any requests?"
"Whatever you find. I haven't heard of most of these people."
"That's because you had no culture until Mac, and he had too many years to account for," she teased. Richie playfully swatted her arm as she walked out.
It was five minutes later, when a new record began to waft through the downstairs of the house, when Richie removed the clam chowder from the stove and the bread from the oven, when someone knocked on the front door. Richie looked to Asher, and Asher looked to Richie.
"You expecting someone, Asher?"
"No, are you?"
"No. Do you we still need to answer it?"
"Unfortunately. You want to get it?"
"Sure," Richie sighed regretfully. He kissed Asher's mouth. "Set the table then?" To which Asher nodded.
The knock came again. "I'm coming, I'm coming," yelled Richie. He unlocked the door, opened it, a surprised expression crossing his face. He quickly masked it. "Clarke," he acknowledged. "Why are you here?"
"Ryan. Good to see you too. I have business here. With Asher." He smiled, nose delicately smelling the air. "Something smells good. Seems I made it in time for dinner."
He pushed his way past Richie, arms buried in the pockets of his coat, stepping silently into the kitchen. "Hello, Asher," he spoke. Richie stood helplessly behind him, loss to what he should do.