Title: Captured Moments: 12 Days of Christmas
Author: Kira [kira at sd-1 dot com]
Genre: Romance/Fluff
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We all know the drill. I don't own Alias, so please don't sue me. I'm already in debt. And even if you did sue me, it would come off my credit card and I'd still be in debt. So, right. You're better off leaving me be.
Author's Note: Special thanks to KarenB for the beta, and Amylee for the read-through.
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On the tenth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree.
Sometimes, awhile ago, on my way to work, when I wasn't rushing with the threat of imminent danger and the sound of my blood pumping rushing through my ears to drown out any other sounds, I listened to radio talk shows in some futile effort to keep up on current events outside the realm of intelligence. Listening to them gave me a chance to forget about work and the world I've moved into ever since that sunny day in college and see the world as others do – full of self-centered actors, silly lawsuits, and pathetic attempts for media. You'd think, after living in Los Angeles for so long, that I'd be immune to such behavior. But the fact of the matter is that I don't have time to pay attention to things outside my small realm, and my blinders are super effective at keeping everything else out of view.
Francie keeps me informed, babbling on and on about who came into her restaurant that afternoon or the latest gossip she caught on Extra! before rushing out for the dinnertime rush. She's always been like that; her dream during the first years of college was to either become a movie star or marry one (which might be why she was secretly hoping Charlie would make it with his singing career), and until she opened her restaurant, I was afraid she'd never do anything constructive unless she achieved one of those goals.
So, to keep up with her on the nights I was home and we actually had the opportunity to talk, I'd switch my radio onto a random AM station and sit back in infamous LA traffic, listening as normal people babbled about normal things, never once hearing the words 'classified' or 'intel' in their conversations. They'd talk about random things, clippings from newspapers and magazines that caught their attention taking up a considerable amount of time, which made me want to read magazines more (or at all) and prompted me to purchasing a few at airports while waiting for flights.
There was one morning when the radio show's host cleared his throat and said, "So I was reading an article this morning..."
His sidekick, always delivering the punch line, laughed. "You? Reading?" His comment wasn't surprising, but drew out a cheap laugh from the lesser listeners.
"The top five things couples argue about," the host continued, and I tuned him out, really, at that point because I wasn't in a relationship and wanted to be. It was a time when anything related to couples was a topic I avoided in some kind of effort to forget about the couple I wasn't in, and that one half of said couple was already dating someone. I'd get mad, which was never a good mood to be in when going to a covert meeting, and say something I'd regret later. I learned my lesson from one mistake, and became a couple-hating woman for a few weeks because of it.
Suffice to say, I didn't remain that way but at the moment, wished I had.
My memory works in strange ways, ways I've learned not to question over time and simply trust. So while I had originally thought I'd blocked the rest of that radio show out of my mind as I daydreamed about broken watches and discarded Oxfords, it all came crashing back to me as a body fell to the ground and into grass moistened by last night's rare rainstorm.
Hands on my hips, I leaned over, hair falling around my face. "Are you okay?"
"Christmas is in three days," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair as he collected himself from the ground. "Why put up the lights now?"
I groaned and threw my hands up in exasperation, the radio show's words coming to haunt me. "What was number four?" the sidekick asked. The host had laughed and said:
"Putting up holiday lights."
Unless you're standing outside your small, ground level apartment wearing gloves and watching as the lights go up in odd, stringy patterns reminiscent of a four year old's crayon drawings, the concept seems silly.
The lights hung haphazardly, strung from one rusted nail to the next over the large window leading into my living room around to the front door, where the end sat just above the door knob, twinkling sadly at the end of the line. The colors don't match - I'd pulled a box from the top shelf in the laundry room, from next to the empty spot where the base for the tree had been stored all year, and spilled out its contents on the floor near the couch. We spent a good hour working on the large knot of stubby lights and tangled green wires until we could take it no longer and brought what strands we'd untangled outside. The result was four strands, two being colored, the others, white with matching wiring bought when hanging icicles were all the craze and Francie found some on sale in some wholesale store.
I'd already looped the white ones around the small front porch we had and plugged them in by the time Vaughn retrieved a ladder from a neighbor and leaned it up against the house, the rubber tips hitting the brick a bit too close to the glass than I'd have liked. He took longer than I had, which was uncharacteristic of a male, and had fallen down just as he was connecting the two strands together, his statement against hanging lights so close to Christmas being mumbled as the two ends of blocky, thick green plastic dangled down and thunked into the window.
My glare intensified and my hands found their way back to my hips. "Are you trying to break my window?"
"No..."
"Just...stay down here," I ordered him, and took a giant step over his legs and started ascending the ladder, hands sliding up the cold metal at the side of the rungs as the rustling sounds of him standing and smoothing out his clothes came from below. Two rungs from the top, I stopped, braced myself against the ladder, and connected the last two pieces, flinching as the randomly colored lights flared to life and thankful I had an arm wrapped around the metal support. As soon as my vision returned, a few blinks later, I looked back down to the ground to see Vaughn grinning like an idiot right next to the only outdoor outlet, the entire back of his clothing completely soaked.
"How's it look?" I called down, sliding down with practiced ease. He took a few steps back to stand in the center of the yard, and sighed.
"Horrible."
His tone was light, and I was positive he was joking, so as I took a step off the bottom of the ladder to solid ground below, I said, "C'mon, it can't be that bad."
"Yes, it can," he replied, gaze flickering to me as I approached him, back still to the house. After an entire day of arguments and strongly-worded mutual discussions, the idea that he could, in fact, be pulling my leg was the first thing on my mind, and so strong was this belief that I fully expected the house to look wonderful the instant I turned around.
I had no such luck.
If there had been flies around when it was that cold, I would have collected an entire extended family in my mouth. The decorations looked like a third grader's science fair project, lights and smaller additions splayed around with a flurry of ill-conceived vision, placed wherever something was needed with no mind to what 'cluttered' meant. If the house had been tilted on its side, they might have been straight and somewhat tasteful, but at the moment, my house looked really, really bad.
"But don't worry," came Vaughn's voice from just behind me, his arms covertly making their way around my waist, his chin balanced on my shoulder. "I think it adds character."
"Character? I think the neighbors are going to think we're crazy," I mumbled, turning my head to look down at him. He was peering at me through soft lashes, eyes focused on my face and not the house we were talking about. I'd always known he was truly five years old, but the expression on his face just cemented the image. Patting the top of his head, I smiled and finally gave in.
He cleared his throat and cast his eyes up, his forehead wrinkling. "Well, at least you won't be accused of copying someone else."
"You always see the glass as half-full, don't you," I commented. He looked off, thinking, then kissed the base of my neck. "I mean, really," I pushed on.
"I'd rather see it that way than half-empty," he quipped as a smile tugged on the edge of his lips. My expression was anything but joking, and I almost felt bad as he sobered up and stood, hands now resting reassuringly on my shoulders. From behind me, I heard him sigh. "There are so many things in the world, in our lives, that are bad, or negative. And instead of falling into them and letting them define us, we have to find the good in the world. The silver lining that keeps us from letting them take over." He gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze. "And it's hard to see the world as anything but half-full when around you. Just by yourself, with your overwhelming spirit and determination, how you break through adversity and still stay this sweet, wonderful woman you are, you're a beacon of hope to the rest of us mortals who have yet to find such internal magnitude and peace."
It's amazingly easy, if you think about it, to kiss someone if they're standing directly behind you; their body heat mingling with your own, auras indistinguishable from one another as no air can pass between you. I didn't follow the guidelines for a normal kiss, didn't let his hands drop to the curve just above my hips and gush up my back as he faced and pulled me in to him. Instead, I tilted up my chin and caught him by surprise with my upside down approach, the sensation of disorienting dizziness intensified by not only his abilities at experimenting with my approach, but the feeling that I was walking on a cloud, dipping down to meet him when they parted and allowed the sunlight to pass through. My hands did catch his neck as I bent my back more, pushing into his surprised yet inviting lips, and just as I was about to break free for fear of dying -
My foot slipped on the wet grass, and sent the pair of us tumbling to the ground in a shower of limbs. My pillow, more a 6'1" collection of limbs and muscles, let out an oof as air rushed from his lungs as I fell on top of him, twisting mid-air to land with my face inches (and facing) his.
"Peace?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Perhaps not at this moment," he retorted as he squirmed under my weight. Things had certainly worked out to my advantage - I had him right where I wanted him, and didn't even have to get wet. "But usually, yes."
"You're deranged."
"And you're beautiful, captivating, and wonderful," he smiled.
I clicked my tongue. "10 points for meaning, 2 for effort. Really, Mr. Vaughn, for a spy, you're lacking in skills."
He sighed, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Frowning, I eased my weight on him.
"While I'm a fan of this position," he started slowly, "and don't get me wrong, I'd love nothing more than to lie here with you for eternity. But this ground is awfully cold and - "
From what my hands had felt of it, he was right. With rain pouring down on the city only a night before and the colder than normal temperatures plaguing the LA area for the last week or so, the grass beneath us had become a refrigerator of sorts, soaked through with cold unwanted rainwater. I cut him off as I vaulted off him and grabbed his hand, pulling him up with me with the speed and urgency of a doctor being paged.
"You're soaked."
"Yes, thank you."
I gave the decorations on the outside of the house a final look, cringing as I passed under them on my way to the front door. There'd be hell to pay when Francie and Will came home, their abilities at any kind of artistic design far greater than my own, and their sense of normality and pride would most certainly force them to fix everything until it looked as perfect as it had in years past. At least this year, they wouldn't be able to yell at me for not being festive, around, or helpful like last year, as I'd put up the tree and lights and kept a good supply of holiday cookies on the tray just inside the foyer on the kitchen counter (if only for my own enjoyment). There were a few still remaining when we walked inside and I swiped one as Vaughn shut the door behind him.
"Mind if I take a quick shower?" he asked, tossing his shoes next to mine near the door.
"Go right ahead," I answered. He brushed by me like a summer wind, planting a soft kiss upon my skin before disappearing, the feeling of his presence lasting far longer than I'd expected, the imprint of his lips on my cheek warming me through as the water snapped on in the bathroom and the apartment was filled with white noise and daydreams.
"How does it do that?"
He'd come out from his shower in remnants left in his solitary drawer – a pair of work-out sweats for an impromptu morning jog and an old t-shirt from nights when Will and Francie were around and insistent on us being social – and towel dried hair, his feet bare as he padded softly across the carpeting to the couch. I'd spent my time while he was in the shower making some coffee, years of depending on the caffeinated substance making me completely addicted and craving it no matter what time of day (or night) it was. Outside, the sun was falling over the edge of the horizon, the fruits of our labor flashing into the approaching darkness and bringing a smile to my face as I handed him a mug and curled a leg under me as I sat on the sofa facing him.
"Do what?" he asked, taking an appreciative sip. He sighed and licked his lips. "Oh, thank you. I needed this."
I tugged on a runaway strand of hair sticking straight up on his head. "Do that."
He shrugged. "Just does. Can be annoying sometimes. This coffee is perfect."
"Thanks," I grinned. My eyes drifted to the large front window he'd previously tried to break a few times, watching the alternating patterns of lights flash and twinkle. For some reason, butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I thought of the fact that I just hung holiday lights with my boyfriend, the act of us working together as a couple to do something so incredibly normal and every-day, exciting me and granting me a sense of being special that could rival the first time I'd walked around his apartment in only one of his pressed Oxfords wrinkled slightly from events of the night before.
Behind me, Vaughn gave another sigh. His cup clanked down on the glass coffee table as his weight shifted. "C'mere."
I turned, hair brushing over my shoulder, and smiled broadly as I scooted back across the worn yet soft cushions to fall into his waiting embrace, his arms circling around my waist and pulling me against his warm chest before I had a chance to put down my own mug of coffee. He plucked it from my hand and placed it gently on the table next to his and stretched his legs out so I was on his lap.
"They don't look so bad from inside," he observed. I blinked, trying to figure what he was talking about. "The lights," he supplemented, "they look fine from here."
"Mmhmm."
"But your tree is sad," he continued. I laid my head down upon his chest, ear pressed against the cage outside his beating heart, and twisted my head to examine the tree. I didn't see anything wrong with it – the popcorn and cranberry garland we'd started had been finished by an insomnia-struck Will, a few ornaments placed up with care by Francie and myself in passing, and the skirt, a relic from my own childhood, was brushed free of wrinkles underneath the already shedding tree. In fact, my tree looked so good, I was surprised catalog photographers weren't lined up outside my door waiting to take a picture.
"What's wrong with it?"
His eyes appeared next to my face suddenly, his lips next to my ear planting a soft kiss upon my lobe before hot breath rippled over it as he spoke. In short, it was driving me crazy. "It's missing the most important thing."
I frowned. "Vaughn, I already told you, we broke the star for the top a few years ago during a New Years Eve party."
"You never told me the details of that…"
"How was your night in jail last year?" I countered. He blushed and let his head fall back against the throw pillow he'd propped up behind him.
"Didn't you hear the whole story from Officer Berk?"
His voice was full of embarrassment, and I took one of his hands in mine and gave it a squeeze. Of course I'd heard the story from Berk, one of the two 'crashers' of Weiss' outrageous holiday party, while Vaughn was helping Weiss to the kitchen and dumped cold water over his best friend's head. Berk had been amused, to say the least, with Vaughn's sad jaunt behind bars, and said he'd slept most of time avoiding a robber named Mickey and his wheelman, an old man with four teeth they called Big Poppa. It hadn't been his best night, but no one could have a good day every day.
And there was no way I was telling him about New Years. That was a story never to be told ever again.
"I'll take that as a yes," he mumbled. "But that's not what I was taking about."
"Enlighten me."
He shifted, pulling his arm back slightly and in such a way that his hand rubbed against the skin just above my waistband, his skin warmer than the air around us, sticky moisture left over from the shower rubbing his fingers against me rougher than normal. His voice was thick from the echo of his chest behind me when he spoke.
"Presents."
I smirked. "Presents?"
"Yes. It looks so lonely without anything underneath it," he retorted, pointing to the tree. I didn't see a problem with the empty space beneath it. Without presents cluttering up the floor under the tree, the skirt that I'd so painstakingly retrieved and put around the base to hide it would be hidden from view. And really, what was the point of a skirt if you weren't going to see it?
"Unlike you," I replied, "who was able to sit around all day and watch ESPN, I had to work."
He groaned behind me, reassuring me that he, too, was upset about that one detail. Kendall seemed adamant when he told me I wouldn't be getting the holidays off as I'd requested, and after waking up this morning to a slumbering Vaughn, I realized that holidays included the three days before. That, or he'd asked for extra days and gotten them. Why he was able to sleep the day away (something I hadn't been able to do since my early college days) while I had to continuously return to work and take care of mindless paperwork was a mystery I hoped to rectify with my own request, a copy of the one submitted to Kendall, that I sent straight to Devlin's office.
I hadn't told Vaughn, though. It was obvious he was planning something for me, that everyone but me was in on it, and I was curious to see how a rejected vacation request was going to factor into his planning.
"What does that have to do with presents?"
I snorted and tilted my head back to look up at his eyes. "I don't get mine gift-wrapped at the store."
"What can I say?" he shrugged, holding up his thumbs. "I plan ahead."
"Right" I scoffed. "The list."
"I threw the list away," he replied softly. "I didn't need it."
His change in tone surprised me, slightly, and I twisted atop him until I was looking down into his face, a hand on either side of his head, balanced precociously on the plush cushions underneath us. They wobbled slightly until they found their balance of equilibrium brought on by my feet, toes stuck firmly next to his own, buckled in to lean against him. My hair fell around us, hiding the rest of the world from view, blinders to keep us focused on only each other and not trees or lights or old Christmas cookies. Just me and him lying together on my couch on a damn cold LA night.
I ran a hand through his damp hair, my fingers running down the side of his face with the aid of the left-over water. "I already have my present," I smiled down on him. His hands found their place in the curve of my hips, pulling me down to him in that subtle yet inviting manner he was able to pull off without a hitch. Lowering my face to his, I kissed his bottom lip before pulling away to swoop in on his jaw line.
"What happened to not opening your presents until Christmas?" he asked in shallow, rushed breaths, his thumbs running circles over my skin. I laughed and hovered just over his lips now, his breath warm against mine as his wide eyes were plastered to my face.
"It was just too good of a gift to wait."
He leaned his head up from the throw pillow it had been resting on and captured my lips with his, tugging me down atop him as he decided to show me just how much fun I could have with my early gift.