Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock.

DISCLAIMER: I am not the owner of these characters.

The Sue Slayers: The Twelve Fics Of Christmas

Chapter Three: Do We Have A Way Out?

In which Clare does unspeakable things with can openers, nearly kills a mockingbird and reads chapters that are short.

December 5

It had been two days since Holly had arrived. I had said a grand total of seventeen words to her, as Artemis had sent the regular nanny away early (she was ecstatic) and assigned me to Twin Watching Duty, and during their naptimes, attic-cleaning duty. He thought he was being some kind of evil genius. I didn't mind. I loved it. I got to play cars, pirates, ninjas, pirates vs. ninjas and hide and seek. In a five storey mansion, hide and seek is ridiculous fun.

So, it was cool. As far as I could tell, Artemis and Holly were not having a good time. It was awkward between them normally, but in betwixt twin and attic duties (as well as my usual cleaning) I'd managed to slip chicken stock or bacon into every single one of Holly's meals.

Yes. It was mean. It was cruel. But it meant they couldn't wander off and talk because Holly was too busy gagging and brushing her teeth.

But that morning, I'd woken up because I was absolutely freezing. I'd gotten dressed in two pairs of pants and a coat before checking the time.

Five-thirty.

Both excellent and non excellent. It was ridiculously early, but it meant I could go screw up Holly's breakfast with no risk of getting caught. I slipped out of my bedroom, silent as a Barry, and tiptoed downstairs, wishing I'd put socks on. I nearly cried out when I touched the bare stone floor in the entrance hall. Jesus, how did people live in the Northern Hemisphere?

Finally, I made it to the kitchen and switched on the light. I wrapped my feet in tea towels, fastened them with bin ties, and opened the fridge.

Air that almost felt warm swirled out. Right. Holly would have cereal later, so I needed to get rid of the milk. I tipped the stuff down the sink – one of the twins would get the blame. I then rummaged through the 'Savory' pantry (coincidentally, the one I'd once trapped Butler in) and found a tin of lard.

Yeah, that would do. It was even on a low shelf, making it even likelier Myles or Beckett would get it. They wouldn't even be punished. Angeline was too soft – no wonder Artemis was off kidnapping fairies when he was eleven. Well, spare the rod, spoil the child.

I tipped the lard into the bottle, wrinkling my nose. For good measure I mixed in some tomato sauce and a few flakes of blue paint.

The deed done, I slipped off my tea towels and headed back to my room.

I knew I wouldn't sleep, so I blocked the crack under the door with a pillow and turned on a light. Might as well read the new Maximum Ride novel.

Excerpt from 'Omega – A Maximum Ride Novel,' pages 1-5.

"CHAPTER ONE

I opened my eyes, and sat up.

CHAPTER TWO

It was morning, and I was in bed.

CHAPTER THREE

Suddenly!

CHAPTER FOUR

Omega appeared, and he had a machine gun.

CHAPTER FIVE

Then I realized it was just a dream."

Riveting stuff. I was at chapter 218, page 114, when I heard Beckett wake up at seven and start throwing things at his brother. That kid was me all over.

My day had begun.

The maid/nanny bits, anyway.

I found my thermal gear (buried way down the bottom of a drawer) and put those on under my regular clothes, a white shirt and a non-blue pair of black pants. After putting on two pairs of socks and flats I made my way to the twins room.

Beckett had climbed out of bed and was attempting to dress himself, so I ignored him and checked on Myles. He blinked up at me from a liberal covering of teddy bears and frowned.

"Breakfast?

"Breakfast," they chorused. Myles dressed himself, and I helped Beckett get his pants off his head and on his legs.

We made our (very slow) pilgrimage to the kitchen, where I found Butler tipping lard-milk down the sink, a scowl on his face. Artemis was sitting at the table, glaring at an omelet of some description.

"Morning, Mr. Fowl." I chirruped, sitting the twins up at the table. "Where is Miss Short?"

"Vomiting."

"Ah." Romantic. "I was thinking of taking the twins to the horses today, is that ok?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Butler threw the milk bottle into the bin. "We're snowed in, Miss Martin. I'm going out in a minute to try and shovel it away, but it's pretty deep."

I went over to the window and peered out.

"Oh. Ow."

There was white stuff everywhere, built up to the windows bottom ledge. I felt like I was at the Bonneville Salt Flats - I'd visited once, with Matt.

"So, no going outside?"

"You don't deal with snow very often."

We do get a bit of snow in Aussie-land, in winter. But even for an Aussie, I haven't had a lot of experience with snow. Sure, I've fought in it several times, which has made my opinion of it quite low (and the snow quite red) but that's about the extent of it.

I'd never been to the snow for fun, though. My parents tried to take me once, but the day before the trip, a Mary Sue had taken to me with a shovel. You can't frolic in the snow with a concussion and snapped arm, so my parents took my brother and sister instead.

Hey. Fair's fair.

Anyway.

"Only a couple of times."

"Breakfast!" cried Beckett, as Butler stuck a bowl of warm porridge in front of him.

"Icky garson." said Myles. Butler gave him one too. "Mercee bow-coo."

Holly entered the kitchen, looking pale and chewing something minty.

"How did I not see that?" she asked.

I ignored her, and tried to keep Beckett from giving himself a facial.

"Any extra tasks for me this morning, Mr. Fowl?"

Artemis was gazing at Holly, who was gazing back. Butler was playing at being oblivious.

"Mr. Fowl?"

Still gazing.

Beckett flung his bowl on the floor, where it (anticlimactically) cracked into a dozen pieces. The noise tore Artemis and Holly away from each other.

"I may need your help shoveling the driveway, Miss Martin," said Butler.

"That's all I needed to hear."

Butler decided he didn't need my help after I fell over for the seventh time. Turns out, concrete gets slippery in winter.

I had a shower, and once feeling had returned to my face and feet (again, how do people LIVE in the Northern Hemisphere?), my mind returned to the mission.

I reached under my bed, pulled out my suitcase and removed the false bottom. After pulling the case file out, I checked for the hair I'd left trapped between two pages. It was still there, and in the same position. Right. I flipped through the pages, scanning for…there it was. Snowed in. If it was impossible for the dynamic duo to venture outside they liked to hole up in the library. In rare cases, they would retreat to the home cinema. In either instance, it meant snuggling on couches and deep and meaningful talks.

And making out, but…picturing Artemis making out with anyone was like imagining Justin Bieber looking manly. Almost impossible, and when it did happen, full of fire and pain.

Ignoring the sense I wasn't making, I took my duster and went for a walk. It was Sunday, so I'd have to vacuum the third floor and then help Angeline with the lights in the entry hall. I made a mental note to put more socks on before that venture.

A quick trip into the twin's room and I was set to vacuum and break up romantic moments…at the same time!

I am woman – I can multitask. Who do you think I am, Matt?

Oh. I frowned and looked out the window at the white grounds. I'd made myself sad.

"Miss Martin, shouldn't you be cleaning?"

"On my way there now, Master Fowl."

"Is everything OK? Is the…thing you clean with broken?"

I turned to Artemis' dad. "This? This is a duster, it's working fine. Just needs to uh…recharge?"

"Ah. I could get Artemis to create one that powers itself from friction."

"I think this will be fine. I don't want to bother the young master."

"True. But he's a nice boy, when you speak to him. I believe he's fond of Miss Short, don't you?"

I nodded vigorously. "Very much so, sir."

Resisting the urge to salute, he made his way downstairs and I skipped to the library.

Thankfully, Artemis was chilling in there by himself, reading a dusty tome in another language.

"Dutch?" I guessed.

He looked at me and said something that sounded vaguely European.

"I'll take that as a…no?"

He looked down at the book. I sighed, and wandered off. Once I was out of Artemis's eye line I reached into my pocket and pulled out the toys I'd liberated from Beckett and Myles. I had toy soldiers, Lego blocks, marbles and little cars.

Question: What did they have in common, apart from being used in my scheme?

Answer: All of them are ridiculously inappropriate for children their age, but whatever. Angeline was a worse mother than Lindy Chamberlain.

I dropped them on the plush carpet, stuck them in books, and generally scattered them throughout fiction and non-fiction. Finally I found myself in the 'Z' section. The small, stained glass window by the Zoology books was smashed through. So the Fangirl had made her own way out.

I too, made my own way out. Through the double doors. I was smart like that.

I timed it so I was vacuuming outside the library doors when Holly entered, in black leggings and a clingy green jumper. It could have been cashmere; I'm not sure. I gave her a nod as she heaved the doors open (they were solid oak. In the event of a Sue invasion, the library was the place to barricade oneself) and made her way in.

I finished the rest of the hall, counted to seventeen by twos and then burst in. I heaved the vacuum along the carpet, hitting it on the ground with thumps. I muttered swear words in English and German. I fell over a chair.

I pretty much overtook Elliot Reid as a moment killer. Finally, concealed behind the 'A' shelf, I peeped at Holly and Artemis. It was not pretty. They had been leaning on each other until my entrance, when they'd jumped apart as if someone had electrified the plush, faux-leather sofa.

I let them relax for a moment, making a show of plugging the vacuum in. I paused, put an open Mars Bar on top of a book called Alcestis.

Then I stepped on one of my toy soldiers and shrieked. Holly twitched. Artemis pretended he hadn't.

"Mr. Fowl?"

"Yes, Miss Martin?"

I picked up the soldier (his little gun had snapped. Awww.) And a marble. "Can you please tell your mother not to let the little ones play in here? I can see melted chocolate on an Euripides."

"I shall tell mother to bar the twins." Artemis didn't look up from his book.

"No respect for literature," I muttered.

"Are you a fan of the classics, Miss Martin?" Holly asked.

"Yes I am, Miss. Dickens, Shakespeare, Charlotte Bronte, Currer Bell…are you?" Twenty-nine words.

"You could say I am. I really like Harper Lee. She shows the horrible and the wonderful sides of humanity in one book, so wonderfully. Yes. It's beautiful. Don't you agree?"

"Yes Clare, don't you agree?" asked Artemis.

He knew…I'd never read Bronte or Dickens. I'd never had the time, or inclination. You don't get many Sues in Great Expectations.

Who the hell was Harper Lee? The name was so damn familiar…

I took a stab. "Yes, completely. Beautiful prose?" Thirty-three words exchanged. I made a note to add it to my tally.

Holly smiled. "I agree."

Just to piss Artemis off, I spent an extra half hour in the library, ruining their afternoon with extra gusto. I stomped, I stepped on toys, I swore in all the languages I knew (four – English, German, Australian and teenager) I picked the toys all up, switched the books in the 'V' and the 'X' sections – no one would notice, anyway – and finally, vacuumed. For an hour and a quarter.

Take that, genius boy.

Artemis caught me sneaking out of my room the next morning.

"You seem to be laboring under the mistaken impression that you've outwitted me."

I dropped the tin of cat food I was holding, but caught it before it hit the floor.

"Jesus, you're lucky I didn't stab you."

"You're unarmed."

That's what he thought. I can do unspeakable things with can openers.

"Holly suspects you are a spy, ex-military. Perhaps working for Opal."

I shook my head. "How could she tell? Elves can't read minds."

"She says you walk like a soldier."

"She hasn't got any proof. Real proof, I mean."

Once I'd completely suppressed the urge to do unspeakable things to that insufferable child, I smiled too.

"She's got one thing wrong, though."

"And that is?"

"I ain't military. I'm a Slayer, and that's so much better than military. Or police. I don't believe in police, I just believe in me."

"Are you finished massacring quotes?"

"Are you done stopping me from doing my job? I know you haven't worked a day in your life, but some of us have cat food to mix into cornflakes."

"I have liberated all of Holly's food from the kitchen. You don't know this house as well as you claim to, Major Martin."

I patted my pockets for the can opener. I'd left it in my drawer. I retreated into the warmth of my room, where Artemis followed and closed the door.

"Oh God, really?"

"I won't stop you doing your assigned mission. But please, stop endangering Holly's health."

I really didn't have the time or inclination to argue with Artemis, so I straightened his tie (yes. Dressed at pre-dawn) and found my can opener.

"I didn't want a mission over the holidays. I wanted a nice, easy Christmas at home, with my family, who I haven't seen out of hospital in a month and a half. I gave it up so a little girl could go home."

"That's rather noble of you."

"It was an accident. So now I'm here, and you can either stay away from Holly and give me a mini break in Ireland or keep doing what you're doing. Since you're being influenced by quite frankly, a ridonkulus amount of Christmas Romance fic, I will cut you a break. But here's the deal." I said, and took a deep breath. "I will give you every meat-based product I have in this room, apart from the beef jerky which I'm eating. I will then give you this can opener. In return you will attempt to stay one foot away from Captain Holly Short at all times. No touchies. You will endeavor to stay away from places that could be construed as romantic. This includes any and all pianos, violins and guitars, the library if it is otherwise empty and for the love of God, balconies under the moonlight. There will be no giving of gifts that aren't ridiculously practical. You will not buy her anything like jewellery or perfume."

"Fairies don't use perfume. Ambergris is derived from-"

"Whales. No painting of portraits, no romantic black and white photography. No gallivanting off to look at Christmas lights. No snowfights. No tree hanging unless Beckett and Myles are there to screw things up. No horse riding. No-"

"I have a feeling this deal is slight unbalanced."

"You can have one of my Slayer-engineered throwing knives." I sighed. "Specially forged in the fires of Mount Doom."

He gave me a look.

"What? One was. Also, no being naked. At all."

"How am I meant to-"

"Hamish and Andy did it. You should be able to, too."

Hamish and Andy are a comedy duo from Australia (but they've caravanned across the UK and America. They do a lot of weird things – for example, once Andy was made blind and Hamish deaf for fifty hours. But the event I'm referencing in the no nakedness bit is when they spent a week strapped to each other pretending to be conjoined twins.

It made life a bit awkward.

Sorry for the long explanation but my beta didn't get it, and if an Australian doesn't get it, what chance do you guys have?

I could have also deleted the reference, but it makes me laugh.

Lindy Chamberlain. One sentence, five words. "A dingo's got my baby!"

Thanks for reading!

-Nicola.