A/N: Christmas in Japan isn't quite the same as Christmas in the West, I discovered. In Japan, when you're not a kid anymore, it goes from being a commercial celebration where you get presents to a romantic event not unlike Valentine's. …which is why I could not resist involving a couple of familiar faces that get next to no screen time at all.
I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.
No, I don't own Dickens' work. Obviously.
He did not dwell long on the night's events they day that followed, nor did he think of it when he planned tomorrow's classes in the company of a whiskey glass; not even when he brushed his teeth for the night, and made a half-hearted attempt at cropping the stubble he had neglected since he woke, did he ponder Sir Pheles' plans.
Fujimoto had his reasons. It was no use pondering those plans, experience had taught him, for they were likely to come to fruition regardless what he thought or did about them. This, mind, did in no way mean that he would not put up resistance. The passive variety was preferable, however, for actively opposing Sir Pheles was the equivalent of actively trying to bring an aikido master down on his back; every force exerted towards that end would be turned against him, and brutally so.
And so, when he was once again roused from his futon in the witching hours, he kept his mind cool and his wits about him.
"Wouldn't it be fitting if the Ghost of Christmas Past stayed in the past?" entreated Fujimoto when his glasses had mounted their familiar saddle at the bridge of his nose.
"What are you talking about? I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present."
And people wondered why his hair was white, when he had passed the mark of thirty not three years ago?
"…you really do plan on doing this by the book, don't you?"
"And successfully revive your Christmas spirit in doing so~!"
A marvellous thing it is, the enthusiasm of a demon – pray that all of them would try to help mankind, and in no time he would have converts flocking at the doorstep of the monastery to receive salvation.
"Any Christmas gift I can bribe you with that would make you give up?"
"Why, of course~"
Whether it was a necessary part of summoning for the air to combust, or if it was yet another expression for the Branch Director's idiosyncratic tastes, none was the wiser. But combust it did, in one billowing cloud of pink; and, as the smoke dissipated, Fujimoto could trace the sensation of constraining to winding wreaths of paper, wrapped in all directions around his body. Upon closer inspection, said paper appeared to be a wish list.
"…whaddaya mean 'scale 1:1 MS Gundam suit: fully operational'? Flying castle, cat bus, a live panda…?" Needless to point out, it was a fool's errand to acquire even one of the objects on that list; as was Fujimoto's attempt at bribing himself out of his predicament. "You sure you haven't accidentally added a zero here? You can't possibly want one hundred kilograms of candy…?" If all it took was ten kilograms, maybe he still had a chance of escape...
"Ah, my bad." With little time wasted, Sir Pheles scribbled the correct amount onto the sprawling list with deep red ink.
"One tonne?! Fine, fine: I give up. Poof we go."
One would have to assume that, like the night before, it was only their minds that ventured out into the world, swept like flurries of snow past unsuspecting humans in the streets: one would have to assume it, since the dining couple showed no sign of having noticed their unexpected visitors.
The two candles on the table shed more shadows than light over the room, but that mattered little, since it was not one that looked familiar to Fujimoto. A fine home it was, however: a home that smelt of warmth and hospitality, without the need to cover any cracked walls. There were abundant flowers at the windows, crowded like curious children for a chance to peek at the snow outside. There were photographs and paintings, and matching cushions seated round the tea table by the Christmas tree; a giant thing, sporting all the colours of the rainbow and a few additions for good measure. It was a warm abode, dressed in finest Christmas shroud and puffing itself up like a bullfinch male courting a potential spouse; an analogy not entirely out of place, as it were, for the two seated opposite each other at the dining table wore the glowing, furtive smiles so often seen in couples newly formed.
"I know these guys", said Fujimoto suddenly. "That's Tsubaki-kohai, the guy who always shows off with his motorbike. And Sandoval-kohai – you know, that Filipino exorcist with a doll's face and a tongue like an akaname. I had no idea they were dating…"
"You never were good at picking up on the subtle language of attraction, Shiro", snickered the other ghostly spectator.
"You call that subtle?" snorted Fujimoto in response; it did not come quite as naturally to him to spy on people's private lives as did it to Sir Pheles. This, especially, concerned moments as private as these.
It is unfortunate, and yet an undeniable fact, that the demands of society foster a need for several persona to suit its many facets. Each situation – be it work, social gatherings, family and conferences – imposes its requirements on the individual, to which every man and woman must respond or be rejected.
Fujimoto himself may have held an aversion to such constructs – he did to many things, after all – but the wisdom of our ancestors has taught us that there is no rule without exception; and even Fujimoto was silently grateful that the persona Tsubaki employed at work was not the same as that he wore in private. Why, the man was cooing like a songbird, and fed Sandoval sponge cake and whipped cream accompanied by pet names that made it a reasonable inquiry if he truly had all sheep in the proverbial paddock.
"You humans are most fascinating creatures."
"Don't lump me together with those two."
Embarrassment can wear nerves thin and patience thinner yet, and in this Fujimoto was no exception. Sir Pheles was fain to play him a prank, it seemed, as demons like so much – but barely had he opened his mouth to demand their immediate return before he heard his name be entered in the dialogue.
"I wish I didn't have to work with Fujimoto-senpai." It was Sandoval, fair and frowning, who uttered his name with an agitated sigh. "He embarrassed me again today, in front of all the others. I mean, I had that harpy-bitch in my sights! Just because he's quicker doesn't mean he needs to steal my kill like I'm some goddamn damsel in distress!"
"I should'a let it tear off your head, you mean?" retorted Fujimoto dryly – and would have done so still, had she been able to hear him. "She's too passive for a Dragoon. Aria or Doctor would fit her better."
"But you are my dainty little damsel, Kitten", chirped Tsubaki, in such a tone and such a way that Fujimoto felt the shaggy hairs on his chin curl towards their roots.
"Kitten? Is he kidding?"
"Don't mind Fujimoto-senpai – he's not a people person, that's all", continued the P.E. teacher cheerfully. "It takes a while to get used to working with him."
"Has he really always been like that?" she asked then, brow scrunching up like a raisin drying in the sun. "That annoyingly perfect?"
"Perfect? No no, my kitten dear~ I hear he was quite the troublemaker in his youth."
"Troublemaker, that one? Now you've got me curious. What did he do, then?"
"Eeh, I didn't meet him until he returned from his time as exchange student, and by then he was much like he is now", Tsubaki said, and scratched a rather prominent gush of dandruff out of his sideburn with a sheepish look. "There were stories, though. One I heard said he kept a succubus sealed in a jar under his bed, but that one night she escaped when he was going to, er, put her back. She stole his clothes and ran off, and he ran after her wearing nothing but his bed sheet, and attempted to seal her in the corridor's vending machine."
"Okay, I hadn't heard that version of it..." groaned Fujimoto as he massaged the bridge of his nose firmly.
"Oh, you haven't heard half the versions of that, Shiro-pon~" snickered his traveling companion happily.
Sandoval, meanwhile, was laughing as well; and Fujimoto would have to confess that he could understand what brought about Tsubaki's blubbering besottedness, for she had indeed the loveliest laughter he had ever heard. It touched something in him that had long been dormant - not the spirit of Christmas celebration, mind, but something as fundamental as breathing and eating, of which he had long been starved. Such a simple thing as laughter, and that special smile two people sometimes share...
"Kihihihi I think I like that story! Aah, you're so funny, my lovely little Rubber Duck~!"
"Oh god, there's another nickname I never wanna know the explanation for. Ew…" Human imagination is a wonderful thing. A wonderful thing indeed. "Isn't it about time they laid off that cutesy-poo teenage crap and got serious?"
"Fufufu listen to the unsold Christmas Cake~"
"Tch. And this is supposed to light my Christmas spirit how, exactly?"
This had Sir Pheles looking at him – goodness, had you seen it! Complete and utter failure to understand was etched onto his face, as if in centuries and centuries of memory he could not find a single clue to why his friend would speak this way!
"You mean to say you don't think it looks cosy and sweet? That you wouldn't want your Christmases to be like this? Filled with heartfelt affection and-"
"I can't, so shut your pie hole. I'm a priest, remember? I don't get to have a family."
Now, this set a most displeased look upon Sir Pheles' features: and there was, indeed, a most displeased tone in his voice when he replied, as demons do, with the barbed sting that only truth can muster:
"Some priest, who won't even believe in what he preaches! Lay off the cassock, Shiro, and remember you are a man among men: life is short for your kind, too precious and too short to waste on faith you'll never have."
"You make it sound like I had a choice", came his reply; quick and curt, with flavour that of bitter almond, and the ring of rusted steel.
It was a thing of the past now, but to say that the past is past as if it does not matter is a lie of gravest kind. It is the past that shapes the present, and the canyons of the mind remain where memory has carved them: monuments, of all things done and all things regretted, that cast shadows that extend forever on.
Many attempts had been made towards determining how and why Fujimoto Shiro was capable of withstanding the Devil's presence, yet nowhere in his mind or flesh had the Order's doctors found any lead to solve the mystery. Perhaps it was an anomaly too small for their instruments to measure? Perhaps it was one they could not hope to detect at all, with human methods? Whatever the answer may be, Fujimoto Shiro was a thorn in the Vatican's side that, like a sheep come down with an unknown illness, made peace of mind impossible for the shepherds. It would not spread in the flock, that much Sir Pheles could assure them; but were it so – pray not – that the illness was inherent in the nucleic acids of this one divergent sheep, then it must be quarantined with different methods. Between priesthood and prohibition, the former type of celibacy had been deemed the more publically palatable by the Order's executives.
"Even if I did ditch priesthood, what woman would marry a guy who won't give her kids? And no, I'm not hooking up with some barren old widow", clarified Fujimoto upon shooting his old friend a glare the kin of gorgons'. "I'm not that desperate, ya know."
Not that desperate, he would claim: but demons know the desires of the human heart, through truth and lie and self-deception, and it was quite clear to Sir Pheles what his friend was missing.
"My my, you're a hard one to please, Father. I guess some beggars will still be choosers." They were seasoned combatants in this type of joust, and knew each other's feints and blocks as well as the signs of surrender; and when Sir Pheles heaved this sort of animated sigh, the argument would continue no further. "Gute Nacht, then, Shiro."
A/N
Akaname – is a ghost that licks up filth in bathrooms. So don't skip out on cleaning that toilet, or it'll get haunted.
Unsold Christmas Cake – is, or was, a mean jibe against unmarried women. Vendors try to have their cakes sold out by Christmas Eve, and any cake left after that is considered old and substandard: same went for women who hadn't managed to find a husband by 25. Nowadays average marrying age is quite a bit above 25: but around this time, when Shiro is in his early thirties, this expression was probably still in use.