Note: Well, this turned out to be about six thousand times more sugary than I intended. But hey! – Christmas! 'Tis the season to rot your teeth. :)

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I. 1914

He's found a quiet corner alone, where he doesn't have to listen to people singing, laughing, exchanging toasts, wishing each other well. He puts his eyes on the stars instead. They're glittering and hard and impossibly distant tonight, small against that black sky.

He doesn't realize how cold he is, how lonely he is, until her warm hand slips into his.

She looks at him with sympathy, not pity; a fine and subtle distinction, but it makes all the difference.

"The second year's easier," she says, soft.

He says nothing. Holds her hand tightly. Chooses to believe it.

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II. 1918

Someone forgot to hang mistletoe. It's all right; at this point, the two of them hardly need the excuse.

Although, she's delighted to discover, there are certain other uses for doorways.

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III. 1922

She finds him in the heart of the madness and hangs back for a moment, watching, trying not to be smug.

He's talking to her ma, plate of food in one hand, joggling baby Sophie against his shoulder with the other – Sophie who has one fat fist crammed into her mouth, and is happily drooling all over his shoulder – while at the same time being clutched about the knees by a very determined wee nephew.

But that's not what makes her feel like she's won some sort of victory.

It's that he's smiling.

Christmas miracle, she decides, and steps in to take their daughter.

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IV. 1926

After a full day of excitement and gifts and some (it must be said) very boring grown-up occasions, the children are finally asleep. He's halfway there himself – and being helped along by the warm, drowsy weight against him. "You were right," he murmurs into her hair.

" 'Course I was," she mumbles, yawning. "About what, mm?"

"Everything," he says softly. He pulls her closer, just the two of them in the darkness, and lets the peace settle. "Merry Christmas, Deryn."

"Frohe Weihnachten, Alek," she whispers, both a benediction and an order.

Her fingers weave through his.

He holds on tightly.