Note: This chapter and the next were written for a Christmas contest over on DeviantArt. Merry Chrismakkuh! :D

.

.

.

"Do you remember," Alek says, setting a fresh cup of coffee on the table beside Deryn, "when I first met your mother and aunts?"

"Aye," she says absently. Her attention is largely on the scene playing out on the floor in front of her, as well as the sketchbook in her hands – a large new one that Alek gave her barely an hour earlier, when they exchanged Christmas gifts.

He takes a drink of his own coffee before placing it on the table, too. "I said that you'd been exaggerating."

"Mm."

"I said that they were hardly as awful as you made them sound."

"So you did."

He crouches and collects their infant daughter in one arm and Bovril in the other. Sophie waves her chubby hands madly, delighted to be hoisted, more delighted to fling herself about at this height. The loris clings to Alek's shirtfront and trembles with the intensity of its dislike for the gaily colored pullover it's wearing.

Red, green, white. A pattern of holly sprigs and frolicking reindeer around the middle. Knitted with love – or possibly deep malevolence – by Deryn's aunts and mother in Glasgow.

It exactly matches Sophie's new pullover.

Alek examines his daughter and his loris and concludes, "Clearly, I was mistaken."

Deryn makes an impatient noise. "Quit moving them about - let me finish this picture so we can send it to Ma and prove they wore her barking ugly jumpers. Then we'll toss the things in the bin, aye?"

"I suppose that's enough," he says, casting a glance at the merry fire snapping and crackling in the hearth. It would be satisfying… but rather childish.

"And I asked her to send something we could sodding use," Deryn adds in a disgruntled undertone. She draws some more while Alek dandles Sophie on his knee and does his best to soothe Bovril's wounded dignity.

"There we are," she says at length. She puts away the sketchbook and pencil and downs her coffee in a long, unladylike gulp before reaching over and plucking Sophie from him. Sophie kicks her feet happily, then squeals as Deryn obligingly tosses her up and catches her. "Blisters, this is ugly. We'll tell Ma she outgrew it."

"She's visiting next month," he points out, working on removing Bovril's pullover while Deryn tries to get Sophie out of hers. The loris seems to be much more cooperative about the process than their daughter. "No baby grows that fast."

Deryn frowns, then flashes a wicked grin. "Then we'll say she was sick all over it."

"It's certainly making me nauseous," Alek says.

She laughs at him, then stands, baby on one hip and horrid pullover in one hand. "Poor prince," she says, lightly grasping his chin and pretending to look him over. "Aye, you look dead awful. Maybe you ought to spend the rest of Christmas in bed."

"Maybe," he says, taking her hand from his chin and kissing the palm. "But no one should be alone on Christmas."

"Mm," she says. The wicked grin returns, and she stoops low enough to brush a kiss across his lips. He holds her in place when she attempts to back away, however, and the kiss deepens into something slow, warm, and full of promise.

She still makes his breath catch and his heart hammer. He supposes she always will; and it isn't as though he minds. "Do you think we can persuade Sophie to go down for a nap?"

"At barely nine in the morning? Our bonnie wee lass? Not sodding likely." Deryn shifts their daughter, who is busily cramming one small, fat fist into her mouth. "Come on, Clanker, I'm still hungry, and you're going to fix me Christmas breakfast."

"Again," he agrees, standing.

She snorts and rolls her eyes, and he laughs, and they make their way to the kitchen, the hideous pullovers lying in a forgotten heap behind them.

.

.

.

Bovril stares at the discarded pullovers for a long, long moment, its fur bristling high.

It does not like them. At all.

They are not even worthy of being used as bedding.

"Most undignified," it says quietly.

Laughter and low voices drift from elsewhere in the house. The loris flicks its ears forward and back, trying to listen, then decides that its People are occupied, and are likely to continue being occupied for some while.

The time is right.

Accordingly, it carefully picks up one pullover at a time, using its paws and its teeth, and carries them both to the fireplace. Then it settles itself on a nearby cushion and watches the hated fabric burn.

Alek and Mr. Sharp should like that.

Bovril certainly does.

"God bless us, every one," it mumbles, quite satisfied with its work, and goes to sleep.