what's up i've literally been trying to pare down and edit ch. 5 of how certain the journey for the past 5 months and it's been kicking my ass! pain! so i decided to write something small in the meantime and have lowkey been obsessed with sabrina carpenter's christmas EP. it got me in the mood to write something christmassy and, er, romantic, so have a walter/una oneshot :3

title from "a nonsense christmas" by sabrina carpenter.


you said you like my stockings better on the floor

It's snowing on the Island, Di had written last week, but not here in Toronto — instead it is only pouring freezing rain, threatening to storm. The air is cold and sharp and charged with electricity as Walter makes his way home, picking his way carefully over the slick sidewalk. Twice his cane nearly slips, and once he reels embarrassingly and nearly falls. Six blocks from the tram stop feels like nothing in the summer, but now it seems an age before he finally sees the warm light of his window, the shadow of his wife moving in the front room.

"You're soaked," Una says as soon as he walks through the door. Their cat, a little white thing Una has christened Pearl, approaches him hesitantly then immediately backs away from his sodden clothes, mewling with distress.

"The rain hasn't let up all day," he says with a sigh, hanging his hat and coat and umbrella by the door. Water drips insistently from them, drumming against the bucket underneath their coat tree. He's not soaked through, but enough rain sluiced down his collar to dampen his shirt and vest. He hurries to the bedroom, already pulling down his braces and undoing his buttons.

"Here," Una says gently, her hands blessedly warm as she helps him shrug out of his clothes. He turns before she can bring him new ones, not particularly wanting to get dressed. The bedroom is a little chilly, but their home is small enough that warmth still reaches them from the lamps and the fire in the front room.

He reaches for Una and she steps into his embrace. Perhaps it's because it's nearly Christmas, he feels sentimental and a little raw, wants the comfort of her body against his. He sways with her for a moment, her head leaning against his chest, arms around his bare waist.

He leans down to kiss her. "Cold," he murmurs against her mouth.

"Shall I warm you?" Una asks. Her cheeks turn pink the way they always do when she says something coquettish, and it is so impossibly sweet and guileless that Walter has to kiss her again, tongue teasing her lower lip.

They tuck themselves into bed, Una still mostly dressed, save for her shoes and apron. She turns to her side, gaze drifting past Walter's shoulder. It's already dark outside, but the growing storm is evident in the howl of the wind, the incessant patter of rain against their window.

"I love storms," she says dreamily.

"Do you, now?" Walter says, faintly surprised that he didn't already know that about her. He is quite sure Una was afraid of thunder when they were children.

"They used to frighten me, but…" Una's fingers tap against the bedspread, whatever rhythm she's playing silenced by the blankets. "I've always liked rain. And I like the sound of thunder — as long as we're indoors, of course. Faith and I used to go under the covers, nights like these. She'd tell me stories — sometimes she'd just make them up, or she'd borrow Jerry's magazines and read the adventure stories to me. She'd change all the characters to be girls, though," Una adds with a soft laugh. "But that's what storms always remind me of — being safe under the covers."

She reaches for him then, tracing his scar from knee to where it ends, dangerously close to where he is already growing hard for her. For a moment, they lay in silence, her hand growing warmer as she strokes up and down, brushing close to where he wants her, then sliding away.

"Do you want a story?" he asks, getting the distinct sense she is teasing him and thinking he ought to tease her back. "I'm afraid I didn't read many adventure magazines as a child, but…"

She shakes her head, blushing even harder, then she reaches up to kiss him.

He kisses her slowly, taking his time. Idly, he strokes his hand up her leg, inching higher with every pass until he reaches the top of her stocking. Here, he lingers, toying with the fabric, stroking the strip of bare skin just above. Una's breath shakes on the exhale.

"Poetry, then?" he murmurs. "When beauty and beauty meet, all naked, fair to fair…the earth is crying-sweet and scattering-bright the air." He's not sure he would include himself in beauty and beauty, but certainly crying sweet is an apt phrase for the soft noises Una makes, the ones he has come to know so well. He is patient about drawing them out into the open, all the more precious for their secrecy.

He does not speak much after that; the two of them never need many words. Walter pulls back to unhook her dress, slipping it off her shoulders, dragging her skirt up above her waist. He loves undressing her, taking her hair down, peeling away the layers of the Una everyone else sees until she is the Una only he knows. Only he knows the delicate wing of her collarbone, the press of her breasts against her brassiere until it falls away, the tiny pockmarked scar on her breastbone, so old she doesn't remember where it's from. Only he knows the length of her dark hair when it's unpinned, falling over her body, the way her nipples peak when he brushes her hair over her shoulders to expose them.

A roll of thunder breaks in the distance. The room is quiet in its wake for the next few moments. There is only the rain against the window; the soft, wet sounds of their lips meeting and parting; the whisper of skin on skin as they touch each other.

Una's hand is warm and a little rough on him, callused from the hours she spends stirring and sweeping. She is braver when she touches him than in the reverse; sometimes he still must tease her legs apart and kiss her until she forgets to be shy, but she'll quite happily stroke him until he forgets his own name, much less remembers to return the favor. That is why he pulls her hand away and presses it to the bed with a little laugh, before she gives him too much and takes nothing for herself. "That's enough for now, sweetheart."

Slowly, he kisses his way downwards, mapping her and charting a wet, open-mouthed trail. "Walter," she says, her breath coming harsh, like she can't get enough air. "Ah — Walter — "

"Shh, sweetheart."

Una props herself up on her elbows, her fingers toying with his hair as he leans down to kiss her right above the dark hair between her legs. A strangled sigh escapes her as he licks his fingers and parts her with them, finding her already wet and warm. He turns to kiss the insides of her thighs, right above where her stockings start.

Walter's been fascinated by this act ever since he first saw it in a pack of postcards passed around by the men in his unit — loves the intimacy of it, the worship. He is more suited to being supplicant than conqueror, he thinks. So he dips his head and supplicates — begs her to come apart for him, with his lips, with his tongue.

He darts a glance back up just as lightning flashes through the room. It illuminates Una, her head fallen back and mouth open. God, it's too much, the knowledge that he can bring her to this edge — this woman who buries so much inside herself, so much under her surface. He shifts against the bed, fighting the aching tension building inside him. He can feel Una's thigh trembling under his hand. Just a little more now, a little closer —

Una's cry is almost lost in another roll of thunder, their window rattling.

Walter presses a final, soft kiss to her center before journeying back to her lips. She smiles against his mouth and guides his hand to her stockings again.

"What shall I do with these?" he murmurs, tugging them down just slightly.

Una laughs. "They're stockings. I don't — understand — why you — "

" — like to look at you in your undergarments?" He is only a man, after all. But he wants her too much to tease her much longer, so he strips them off, the last layer between them, feeling her bare legs rest against his waist.

Una lifts herself up to kiss his chest, the mottled webbing of scars where a normal man would have nipples, a visible breastbone. The scar tissue is thick enough that he can barely feel her lips, but he knows that is not the point — that she only wants to show that she is not afraid, that she loves this part of him, too.

"You are the loveliest thing," he murmurs into her hair, something impossibly tender cracking open in him.

He turns just a little awkwardly so that he is taking his weight on his good side, drawing Una's leg over his hip. She takes him easily after half a year of marriage; the sound he pulls from her as he enters is one of pleasure, not pain.

No, he can barely feel her chest against his, or her fingers digging through the layers of scar tissue on his shoulders. But he does feel the warmth of her around him, the intimate tightening of her muscles as the waves carry him out to sea, and she pulls him in to shore. He feels the feathery touch of her lips against his neck, tantalizing. He feels himself murmur that he loves her, hears her whisper the words back. He hears her whimper and sigh and hears another crack of thunder outside. The world narrows until it is just them in this bed, in the eye of the storm, swirling around them until it shudders and explodes.

Una rests against him, idly tracing circles on his chest with a finger. Walter kisses her hair, wraps an arm around her shoulder, and she catches his hand and kisses that, too.

They lay there long enough that the world goes silent, and it finally occurs to Walter that the storm has abated. With effort, he forces his heavy limbs to carry him out of the bed and to the window.

"It's snowing," he says. "Come look." It hasn't stuck just yet, the ground outside still wet from the rain, reflecting the warm glow of the streetlights. The light catches the snow as it spirals past around their house, as though they're in a snow globe, ensconced from the world outside.

Una approaches behind him, twining her arm through his. "Oh," she breathes. "Beautiful."

He tugs her closer and they watch the snow fall together, the way they have done so many times before, safe in each other's shelter.


walter is quoting "beauty and beauty" by rupert brooke, which would've been published in the 1913-15 edition of georgian poetry. it's a little more contemporary than a lot of the quotes/references in canon, but i can imagine walter might've been familiar with the georgian poetry series if he was following english poetry leading up to his enlistment, or he might've picked up the series on leave in britain. (or u can allow me my artistic license!)