AN: Regular readers may notice that it's been a while. Not just for this story. What can I say? Last month or so I've not been feeling very creative.
AN2: Title of this is from a song. Yes, yes, yes, I can never think of my own titles, leave me alone. 'Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas'. By many, many people. But the version that is in my mind with this is the one that goes 'Someday soon we all will be together/If the fates allow/Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow' Yes, it's more depressing. I don't care, it still makes more sense than 'hang a shining star upon the highest bough'. Anyway, the original song included 'Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas/It may be your last/Next year we may all be living in the past.' Apparently that was too depressing for Judy Garland, and I can't honestly blame her. Though still pissed off at Sinatra for the 'highest bough' thing.
AN3: Look. You know it's for you. Naturally. Happy Christmas, mate. And the amazement and the amusement just doesn't fade, and I never take for granted. Even if there are numeracy issues.
Now! Timeline!
1. 'In the beginning' Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 13 and 14) Rusty is seven, Danny is nine.
2. 'Neverending Conversation' Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 15 and 16) Rusty is seven, Danny is nine.
3. 'Something more than it should be' (Chapter 10) Rusty is ten, Danny is twelve
4. 'Four Day Interlude' (Chapter 5) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen
5. 'Remember the first time' (Chapter 4) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen
6. 'Sunshine, smiles and sweet, sweet words' (Chapter 17) Rusty is ten, Danny is thirteen.
7. 'View from the outside' (Chapter 12) Rusty is eleven, Danny is fourteen
8. 'Walk before you can crawl' (Chapter 2) Rusty is twelve, Danny is fifteen
9. 'Other Nightmares Parts 1 and 2 (Chapters 8 and 9) Rusty is twelve, Danny is fifteen
10. 'The more things change' (Chapter 1) Rusty is thirteen, Danny is fifteen
11. 'Six months of roses' (Chapter 18) Rusty is thirteen/fourteen, Danny is sixteen
12. 'Life Lessons' (Chapter 7) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is sixteen - falls within time of 'Six months of roses'
13. 'The lies we live' (Chapter 3) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is sixteen
14. 'If the fates allow' (Chapter 19) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is seventeen
15. 'This is our decision (to live fast and die young)' (Chapter 6) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is seventeen
16. 'Such a perfect day' (Chapter 11) Rusty is fourteen, Danny is seventeen.
The snow was crisp, deep and just plain cold and Danny considered himself well out of it. Which was why he was hanging back in the doorway, with the central heating on full blast behind him, watching Rusty struggle up the driveway.
The look he got when Rusty finally made it inside would probably have been a lot more effective if Rusty hadn't hidden himself under quite so many layers.
"Cold outside," Danny commented, by way of explanation.
"Yeah. I noticed." Rusty's voice was muffled and he turned his back on Danny and pulled off his coat, and a scarf. Danny watched, fascinated as he realised that there were another two scarves underneath. "Your mom left okay?"
"Uh huh." He'd spent most of the morning eavesdropping on her talking on the phone, desperate to find out if her flight had been cancelled, or if Tom had changed his mind. "We're all alone till New Year."
Rusty unwound the other scarves and pulled off his gloves. "Good." He must have sensed Danny watching. "It's cold."
"Right," Danny agreed and reached to the table behind him.
"If you were any sort of friend you'd have - " He turned round, and Danny smiled and pressed the mug of hot chocolate he'd had ready into his hands. " - done that," Rusty finished.
"I did."
Rusty looked at the drink thoughtfully. "Cream, marshmallows and sprinkles?" he asked hopefully.
"And a flake as well," Danny nodded. "You're going to be dead by the time you're twenty."
Closing his eyes, Rusty took a drink. "Oh, that's better," he said. "And chocolate never hurt anyone." He laid the mug down, pulled off his hat and shook the damp out of his hair, and Danny swore softly and reached out a gentle hand to the cut on Rusty's forehead and the multicoloured bruise on Rusty's cheek. Rusty smiled. "Least in this weather it comes ready iced."
"Just once, he couldn't leave you alone?" he asked, savagely.
"He caught me when I was leaving. Wanted to know where I was going," Rusty shrugged, and he hesitated, looking at Danny.
Danny sighed. "What else?"
In answer, Rusty wriggled out of his jumper and the bruises on his neck and arm were clearly visible under his t-shirt. "It's nothing."
"Yeah. Nothing," Danny answered flatly. Maybe it wasn't. In the scheme of things, in comparison
Rusty smiled. "What, you think everything should be better because it's Christmas?"
Not just because it's Christmas. "Why not?"
"Because this is the really real world?" Rusty suggested. "And we're not five?"
"Yeah." Danny wandered through to the kitchen. Rusty took his mug and followed him.
"We got enough in to eat?" he asked.
Danny pointed sternly at the nearest chair, and Rusty gave him a look and hopped up to sit on the kitchen counter instead. Well. Close enough. "All the leftovers from mom's Christmas party. Canapes and coronation turkey and about twenty different kinds of cake."
"Any real food?" Rusty asked, tilting his head back obediently.
"Now you want real food?" Danny blinked, flannel in hand.
Rusty waited until Danny had finished dabbing away the blood, and shrugged. "Just that the shops are going to be shut for a few days. We got enough bread? Milk?"
Danny sighed and looked out the window at the weather. "You just want to get me out in that, don't you?"
He was answered with a grin. "It's Christmas Eve and it's snowing. What more do you want? Popcorn? Ice cream? Coffee?"
Ah. Essentials. Danny gave in, less than graciously and stuck a band aid over the cut. "Okay, okay."
Rusty frowned suddenly, as if something urgent had occurred to him. "How about eggnog. We got enough eggnog?"
He looked over his shoulder at the fridge. "Uh, two and a half cartons." Rusty continued to look troubled. Danny groaned. "We'll get more."
He'd been right; it was cold outside. They walked in silence and Danny concentrated on feeling sorry for himself, and Rusty concentrated on laughing at him.
Of course, it would take a lot more misery, and a lot more entertainment, to stop them from being aware of the flurry of movement behind them, and in a moment of unplanned, unscripted and perfect coordination, Danny pushed Rusty at exactly the same moment as Rusty pushed him; and as a result the snowball went flying between them and splatted against the Gardiner's garage wall.
"Huh." They exchanged a quick, amused glance and turned slowly to see Mike staring at them, wide-eyed.
"That was brilliant!" he said, decisively. "How did you do that?"
"Magic," Rusty grinned.
"Heard you coming," Danny explained, a little more sensibly.
Mike nodded and still looked for too impressed. "We're having a snowball fight. Want to join in?"
"We're heading to the shop," Danny said, reluctantly.
"For eggnog," Rusty added.
But Danny frowned. Because . . . "On the other – "
" – well, I suppose – "
" – Haven't had – "
" – not since we were kids," Rusty agreed.
They had the time. Why not?
Mike grinned. "Great! You can be on my team."
"Hey," John appeared, brushing snow off his gloves. "We had even teams. They'll put you ahead."
Danny bit his lip; evidently John was taking this a little too seriously.
Mike shrugged. "Okay, you can have Timothy."
"Wouldn't it be easier to just split Danny and Rusty up?" John suggested. There was a pause and Mike stared at him and both boys started laughing helplessly.
"Yeah, good one," Mike sniggered, when he'd caught his breath.
Danny turned round to look at Rusty. "You think – "
" – Oh, yeah." Rusty agreed. They were being made fun of. Just a little.
A while later and they were trailing into Mike's kitchen on the promise of coffee.
And Danny was even colder than he had been before, and he was mildly soaked, and very out of breath, and he had snow down the back of his neck, courtesy of Timothy - who'd subsequently been sufficiently distracted by the sight of Rusty flirting with Susie for Danny to get his retaliation in. He was cold. He was wet. And he was happy and Rusty was grinning.
"John couldn't hit a snowball with the side of a barn," Rusty laughed, taking his hat off.
"You're just good at dodging," Mike answered, rummaging through the cupboards. "Hey, Danny, my parents and my little brother are out at my grandma's, and they won't be back till later. Do you . . . " He lowered his voice and trailed off significantly.
"What?" Danny asked, amused.
"Do you want a shot of something in the coffee?" Mike hissed. "Alcohol, I mean."
"Sure," Danny agreed. "What've you got?"
"Uh, vodka or whisky," Mike said, after a moment and a little more rummaging.
""Whisky," Rusty said immediately, and Danny breathed a sigh of relief. "Vodka doesn't go well in coffee."
Mike turned round frowning. "Rusty, are you sure you're old enough. . . " And Danny saw the precise moment when Mike noticed the bruises and he heard the audible snap when Mike closed his mouth, and still Mike stared just that little bit too long. "Right," he said eventually. "Three Irish coffees, coming up."
There was a vaguely uncomfortable silence while Mike sorted the coffees, and even as they sat and drank, Mike was still stealing glances.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, at last.
"Nah," Rusty lied, and there was an edge to his voice that made Danny nervous.
If anything, Mike looked even more troubled. "What – "
" – I walked into a door," Rusty interrupted, and this time it wasn't even worth being called a lie.
"Mike," Danny said, quietly and firmly, and Mike reluctantly changed the subject.
"You know, I could've sworn that you were away for Christmas, Danny. My mom was talking to your mom."
"She's away. I'm not." Danny explained. She was making good use of his college fund, now that she didn't have to spend it on him.
"So what are you doing for Christmas?" Mike asked innocently.
They glanced at each other and shrugged. Might as well be honest.
"Popcorn and eggnog," Rusty said happily.
"And movies," Danny nodded.
Mike smiled. "Sounds fun."
They ignored the note of pity in his voice. Just because it wasn't normal didn't mean it wasn't wonderful.
The night before Christmas and they had every cushion, pillow and blanket in the house laid out on the living room floor, and they were lying, watching the bewildering late night Christmas movies, surrounded by eggnog and ten, overflowing bowls of popcorn. They should possibly have read the instructions before they tried making the stuff. At least the bit about the recommended amount. Though Rusty seemed happy enough, and now there was no more salt or butter in the kitchen.
Bemused, Danny watched as the aliens introduced the little girl to Father Christmas.
"Isn't that kid a little too old to believe in Santa?" Rusty asked idly.
She looked about thirteen. And there was a line to be drawn between charmingly naïve and dangerously stupid. Still. "She's sitting on the back of a flying reindeer," he pointed out. "Under the circumstances, I might reconsider."
Rusty acknowledged the point and took another handful of popcorn.
Danny was thinking. "I was eight," he said, thoughtfully, remembering.
"Yeah?" Rusty propped himself up on his elbow and turned away from the movie.
"Just eight," Danny clarified. "Christmas Eve. Mom sat me down and told me I was far too old to be believing in children's stories. Dad was so angry with her. They hardly said a word to each other till New Years. It was pretty peaceful, actually. And I guess Dad felt guilty or something, because he bought me three new GI Joes."
"GI Joes?" Rusty asked, and there was pain behind his smile.
Danny shrugged. "He tried."
"Yeah," Rusty agreed, and he raised his glass and Danny gratefully joined in the silent toast.
"How old were you?" Danny asked presently.
"When?" Rusty asked, after an undetectable pause.
Danny blinked. There was something . . ? "When you found out the truth about Saint Nick."
Rusty grinned. "Who says I have?"
"Rusty," Danny said, frowning.
There was a reluctant sigh. "I was seven."
Seven. The Christmas after they'd met then. And with a growing sense of guilt, Danny replayed a couple of conversations in his head, that first Christmas. Oh. Fuck. "I'm sorry, Rus'."
"Don't be," Rusty told him sharply. "I was glad."
And Danny looked up sharply, because again, there was something. "Why?"
Rusty hesitated. "It's better . . . " He paused and started again. "It's easier to know that it's just your parents who . . . not some all-knowing being who thinks you're . . ." he shrugged helplessly, and Danny understood and the small voice of infinite fury that was hardly ever silent screamed again.
"Oh," he said, shortly, tightly, hopelessly.
"He knows if you've been bad or good," Rusty quoted, with a grin.
"They didn't get you anything," he stated, and he'd known, certainly he'd known that since Rusty's mom left there'd been no seasonal cheer, no festive food, no presents. Didn't stop him from hating it.
"Sometimes they got me something," Rusty defended and Danny clenched his jaw. "When I was young enough to need it. Clothes or candy. Even a jigsaw once."
"Rus'," he said quietly.
Rusty sighed. "I know, Danny. But even if they'd wanted to they never had that much money."
"They always had enough to spend on themselves," Danny answered bitterly.
"And most of the time, so have I," Rusty pointed out. "But the year before, Dad had just lost his job. And I suppose it was easier just to tell me that I was far too bad for Santa to bring me anything."
Danny swore. For a long time. Parents. He could live without them.
Rusty smiled. "This time next year?" he offered gently.
He nodded. They'd be far away.
They looked back at the TV. "Hey, Jimmy Stewart," Rusty said, delightedly.
"We watched it when it was on two days ago," Danny pointed out.
"I checked the listings. We can watch it three more times this week." And Danny wasn't completely convinced that Rusty knew that wasn't a good idea.
He smiled and shuffled closer to Rusty, lay close enough to touch, and he reached past him as though the eggnog was all he'd wanted.
In his dream, he was sixteen again and he sat at the table with his mother and picked at the trifle and tried to think of something to say that might make her smile. The conversation flowed like ice.
He was fifteen again, in a foreign country. Yvette had just left, and he was feeling like a stupid little boy, and he was lonely and he missed his dad so very much. He wished he could talk to Rusty.
He was fourteen again and his side hurt, and Uncle Harold had been on the phone for hours, or at least long enough that the turkey had gone cold. He knew better than to be rude enough to start without him. In a couple of days his parents would be home. A couple of days after that his dad would move out for good.
He was thirteen, he was twelve, he was eleven and they wouldn't stop arguing.
He was ten and they were eating Chinese take out because Mom had dropped the turkey on the floor. She'd said it was an accident. She'd said it was his fault. He'd only wanted to know why he couldn't invite Rusty to spend the night at New Years. She always let him have a friend over while the party was on.
He was nine and it was just him and Mom. She said Dad had found something better to do. She let him stay up late and made him hot chocolate and cried when she thought he wasn't looking. He asked if it was his fault. She didn't answer.
He was eight and there was a little less wonder in the world.
He was seven, he was six, he was five and he tried so hard to be good, and he always got everything he asked for, so Santa had to think he was a good boy. So why didn't Mom and Daddy notice? Why wasn't he good enough? He'd make them notice. This time next year, they'd love him.
In his dream Rusty was thirteen, ten, twelve, five, nine, any age, every age, clutching a candy cane, a string of popcorn broken at his feet, and his father stood over him and swung his fist, his foot, his belt, again and again and Rusty bled and didn't cry.
Danny did.
He woke up with his arm trapped under the cushion they'd dragged off the settee in the hall, and it took him a little while to remember where he was. Right. Living room. Christmas. He sat up only to see Rusty sitting far too close to the TV, wrapped in a duvet and sitting on a pile of about eight pillows, watching the opening scenes of 'Bambi'.
"Change the channel," Danny said firmly. Rusty twisted round and there was definitely the beginnings of a pout, but some things he wouldn't be swayed on. "Don't give me that, you know why."
"Happy Christmas to you too," Rusty grumbled, but he found 'Miracle on 34th Street' instead.
"How long you been awake?" Danny asked, stretching.
"'Jungle Book'" Rusty told him, laconically.
Danny nodded. "Anything for breakfast?"
"Eggnog, chocolate, and lots of popcorn," Rusty suggested.
Huh. "It'll be cold," he pointed out. Cold popcorn tasted like cardboard. And they still had six bowls of it.
Rusty looked thoughtful. "Think we could put it back on the stove?"
There was a long, carefully considered pause.
"No," Danny said at last.
"No," Rusty agreed.
No setting fire to the kitchen at Christmas. If at all possible.
"Ice cream?" Danny suggested instead. Since Rusty had insisted they buy three cartons of it at the store yesterday. Might as well get good use out of it.
"How about coffee and croissants?" Rusty said, with a smile.
Danny raised an eyebrow. "Positively civilised," he remarked.
"We can have ice cream for dessert," Rusty added and Danny smiled. Very reasonable.
They ate breakfast and watched the rest of the movie play out, and Danny kept glancing over and hesitating and wondering if he'd done the right thing.
"What?" Rusty asked at last.
Danny sighed. "Well. I know we agreed that we weren't going to get each other anything – "
" - Because we need to save all our money – " Rusty interjected.
" – yeah." Danny nodded. "Yeah. But – "
Rusty smiled at him. " – But we were both lying. Remember?"
He relaxed. He did remember. "Happy Christmas, Rusty," he pulled the package out from where he'd hidden it under the sofa.
With a smile, Rusty produced his own package. Rather disturbingly, the wrapping paper was identical. "After you," he said, politely.
"No, I insist. After you," Danny replied, with an equally fake politeness in his voice.
Rusty grinned and pulled the bow to pieces.
"Hey!" Danny objected. "That took me ages."
"You're supposed to be creative and dextrous," Rusty told him, as he reverently lifted the dark brown leather wallet out of the paper. "Oh, that is nice. Thank you, Danny."
And the appreciation in Rusty's voice was wonderful to hear, but he hadn't seen half of it yet. "Check the lining," Danny said eagerly. "At the top."
Rusty frowned at him, but he carefully felt his way along the edge, and Danny grinned at the moment when he found the hidden compartment and his expression changed. The wallet opened just a little bit further than looked possible, revealing an assortment of new and shiny lockpicks and tools. "Danny," Rusty breathed and honestly, Danny would probably do anything for that look and that smile.
"You're welcome," he said, and the smile wasn't dying away any time soon. He liked the thought of Rusty always having an extra means of escape on him.
"Open yours," Rusty demanded, equally eager, and Danny was only too happy to oblige. Under the paper was a box, and inside that was . . . oh. Inside that was a gold wristwatch. And it was beautiful, and it was elegant, and it was exactly his style, and it must have cost a fortune (and some part of him would always have to wonder whose) but that wasn't what brought the lump to his throat when he held it up to admire it. The two sets of initials engraved on the back. The date. The message.
This year. Next year. Always.
He looked up at Rusty, watching him – hopefully? Anxiously? – and he couldn't even speak, and he could only be thankful that it was him and it was Rusty and he never needed to.
Rusty smiled and raised a glass of eggnog. "To next year."
"To always," Danny whispered back.
There'd never been a better Christmas before. But next year they'd be free.
Hope you enjoyed this. And I can tell you now that have two more chapters of this half written on my hard drive, so my serious work ethic issues notwithstanding, hopefully won't be as long to wait for the next chapter.
Season's greetings, whatever the season you're reading this in.