My Christmas Series for 2014 2/4
Jan. 1st, 2015 06:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katleept6. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' Splinter and Turtle Tots in
His little, green tail wagged as he climbed the railings. He'd seen his brothers climb them many times before and felt confident that he knew what he was doing. He was going up to the top world alone, and there he would find exactly what he needed. He pushed aside the grating that covered the hole leading to the outside world and was just about to take the final step when somebody grabbed his ankle and yanked him hard.
He yelled as he flew through the air and cried when he landed on his shell. "That hurt!" He rubbed his shell as his tears flowed.
"Serves you right," Raphael sneered down at him, "fer tryin' to sneak off. What the Hell were you thinking, Mikey?!"
"Ooo! I'm gonna tell Maser Spliner you said a bad word!"
"So what? You tell him I said a bad word. Tell him I hurt you even. I don't care." His older, and seemingly always angry brother, rolled his considerably stronger shoulders. "I'll tell 'im you were headed up to the upper world alone. Who do ya think's gonna get into trouble?"
Mikey's lower lip trembled. "Both of us," he answered to which Raphael rolled his eyes. Mikey opened his mouth and wailed at the top of his lungs.
"Shuddup!" Raphael jumped to his side and covered his wide open mouth with his hand. Mikey bit down on one of his three fingers, causing Raphael to yell this time. "What the heck did ya do that for?!"
"Why not? You were mean to me, so I was mean to you."
"I saved your little ass from going up there!"
"My little ass wanted to go up there."
"Well, it doesn't need to. It needs to stay down here!"
"You go up there all the time!"
"That's beside the point -- " Raphael's face suddenly fell. "Uh oh," he muttered. Then, he attempted, "Hum, hi, Sensei."
"Hello, Raphael." Splinter's tail swished behind him, moving the skirts of his old, purple robe. "What is this about your going to the above world 'all the time', and why is your brother crying?"
"I can explain." Raphael thought swiftly but knew he could come up with no excuse that would completely get him out of this problem. He might be able to persuade Splinter that he had nothing to do with the reason Michelangelo was crying, but he'd never again believe he wasn't venturing to the upper world by himself. No matter what he did or said, he was going to be doing flips until he was thirty. "Thanks a lot, Mikey," he ground out.
"Why don't you go ahead and start your three hundred flips, Raphael?" Although his Sensei voiced the command as a suggestion, Raphael knew it wasn't. He glowered at Mikey as he walked pass him but quickly began flipping.
It was three weeks later before Raphael dared to try to slip out of the lair again. He spied Mikey on the couch, doing something with a needle and thread, but chose to completely ignore his little brother. As the second youngest of the brothers approached him, Raphael darted around Donatello and out the open entrance.
"Mikey, whatcha got there?" Don asked, sitting down beside his baby brother. He could see the tears in his dark eyes and had noted the scent of blood the moment he'd entered the lair from his daily hunt through the nearby pipes for anything he might be able to use in his many inventions.
Mikey's frown deepened. "I been tryin' to learn how to sew, Donnie, but all I do is keep sticking myself!" Just as he said the words, the needle pierced his skin again. Mikey threw it and the purple thread as far as he could. "Hell!" he wailed.
The ridges above Donatello's eyes lifted. "Mikey, who have you been listening to?" he asked.
"Raphael."
Don sighed. "It figures. Mikey, you may not wanna listen to him. He'll get you into trouble, bro."
"He already did!"
Donatello frowned at that, having not heard about the previous incident when Michelangelo had tried to climb to the above world. Instead, he rose and picked up the needle and thread. "I can teach you how to sew, if you want me to," he offered gently.
But Mikey's mind was made up. He shook his head angrily with his beak pursed together. "No," he stated harshly. "All that stuff does is hurt me. I'm gonna have to find something else." He jumped up from the couch and ran from the room. "I just don't know what," were the last words Donatello heard. He worried over them for a moment but then remembered the invention he was working on and completely forgot about his little brother's problem.
=^.^=
Leonardo was the next of Mikey's older brothers to approach him. It was a week after Michelangelo had failed to learn how to sew and his small digits were just beginning to recover from the needle's numerous piercings. "Mikey," Leonardo asked, coming to sit down beside him after one of their daily training sessions, "Master Splinter told me he's worried about you. You haven't been cleaning your room, and you've been acting out in other ways. He says you even tried to go up to the humans' world!"
"I did," Mikey admitted, swinging his legs beneath the bench upon which they were sitting, "but he doesn't have ta worry about me. I'm good."
"Really? Where'd all the holes on your fingers come from then?"
"I tried to learn how to sew." The bottom half of his beak stuck out. "It didn't work."
"Why were you trying to learn to sew? You know Master Splinter will mend any holes we have in our uniforms."
"I know, but who mends his stuff? His robe is full of holes and all messy."
"You know, Mikey," Leo said, leaning in conspiratorially to his younger brother, "Master Splinter was also wondering what you want Santa Claus to bring you this year. I told him I'm sure Santa has it in his bag, but I haven't seen you write to him."
"That's 'cause I haven't. Raphael says he doesn't exist."
"He does, does he?" Leo asked, lacing his tone.
"Uh huh." Mikey nodded. "He says Maser Spliner gets everything for us, and that makes sense 'cause, really, whoever heard of Santa Claus giving chipped toys and coloring books that have a few of the pages ripped out of them?"
"Mikey . . . " Leo paused, his whole being growing rigid and solemn. He didn't want his little brother to lose his belief in Santa Claus, but he also didn't know how to explain this situation. Each of them had learned, over the last several years, that Master Splinter did indeed give them their presents, but it had been nice having the youngest of their family still being a believer.
"Santa Claus does exist," he said at last, " and he does try to find us, but we have to stay hidden from a human and he is kind of a human."
"He's supposed to be magic, Leo. He'd understand us if he was real. But he's not. Maser Spliner gives us everything. He does everything for us. He saved us, you know."
"I know," Leo returned, placing his hand gently over his little brother's.
"I just . . . " Mikey's face screwed up as he tried to find the words to explain the thought weighing heavily on his mind. "I wanna . . . "
"What, Mikey? What do you want?" urged Leo.
"I wanna give Maser Spliner something very good, something that shows him up how much I love him and how much he means to me. We wouldn't have anything at all if not for him."
Leo squeezed his brother's hand. "We'd still have each other, but you're right. Master Splinter does do a great deal for us. He's our dad, and he protects us and saves us and makes us happy."
"I wanna make him happy."
"If you really do, Mikey, the best way," Leo advised, "is to do what you're supposed to do. Clean your room. Stay safe. Go to bed when we're supposed to. Do everything he asks you to. Then he won't have to worry about you."
"You think he worries about us?"
"All the time. Especially you." Leo grabbed him in a big hug. "You're our youngest. We can't have anything happening to you!"
"And you really think doing stuff like cleaning my room is the best way I can thank him?"
"I know it is."
MIkey hugged him tightly. "Thanks, Leo," he blurted out and then ran to make his Sensei's Christmas wish come true.
=^.^=
When Christmas Eve arrived, Mikey could barely be still. He ate every bite of food on his plate, even though it wasn't his favorite and the only one he really wanted to eat, pizza, cleaned away the dishes, tidied the kitchen, and then laid down in his little cot. He was still squirming when their Sensei stepped into the room to check on him.
"Michelangelo," he asked, the tip of his wiry tail twitching, "whatever is the problem?"
"Did you notice, Sensei? Huh? Huh? Did you?"
Slowly, the old rat smiled. "Yes, Michelangelo," he assured the young turtle, "I have noticed that you have been very good today. I am quite certain that Santa Claus will bring you something very special."
"I'm not worried about what Santa's gonna bring," he blurted.
Splinter's furry eyebrows rose slightly. "You're not?" he asked in surprise.
"Nope. Not at all. I'm worried about what you think. You are Santa Claus."
"Michelangelo, I am not -- "
"Well, maybe not Santa Santa. The real Santa doesn't exist. But you're our Santa Claus and -- "
"HO! HO! HO!"
Splinter whipped his staff out from underneath his robe and to the ready. Michelangelo jumped to his feet. "What was that?!" he cried, eyes wide.
"I don't know." Splinter's tail whipped through the air with his admission. "Stay here. Stay quiet and hidden until you hear from me."
"Yes, Sensei," Mikey answered without pause. He rolled back into his bed, pulled the covers up over his head, and peeked out, all while trying to make it look like he wasn't there.
Splinter noticed none of this, however, for he had already left the room, running at full speed to where the cry had sounded in the very entrance of their home. He paused in surprise as he took in the scene before him, only stirring again when Leonardo and Raphael bumped into his back. Keeping his staff at the ready, he reached with his free hand to his sons and tucked them both into line behind him.
"What's wrong, Sensei?" Leonardo whispered urgently. "Where's the enemy?"
"Yeah. Whose lights do I get to punch out tonight?" growled Raphael.
"No one," Splinter answered, slowly edging into the den.
"Sensei, what happened to the tree?"
Splinter blinked as he stared at the Christmas tree. He rose up to his full height and sniffed all around. He frowned as his puzzlement grew. He smelled no other scents of living beings other than himself, his sons, and the bugs that never left them as they had to live in the sewer. He kept wishing Donatello would invent something that would stop the pestering insects, but every time Don found something, the bugs quickly adapted and came again.
"It would appear," Splinter answered slowly, "that some one has replaced it for us." They had had a scrawny, small tree which another family had thrown out to the garbage. All its ornaments had been handmade, either by himself or his sons with things he had found in his travels through the New York sewage system. That tree was gone. In its place stood a towering pine that reached all the way to the top of the pipes that passed for their roof. All the handmade ornaments were still there, but many others, glistening and apparently new, had been added. Whoever had changed the tree had to have had the stealth of a ninja for not a single bell had chimed throughout the entire switch.
Underneath the tree were brightly wrapped objects that looked like presents. Splinter tapped each in turn with the end of his staff, still expecting an enemy to spring into life. When nothing happened, he edged closer but still waved to his sons to stay where they were.
Donatello came up behind Leonardo and Raphael. "Sensei," he asked, yawning, "what's happening?"
Raphael snorted. "Freaking Santa Claus came, dude."
"Science has proven there is no such individual."
"Maybe science is wrong for a change," whispered Leo. Maybe they all were. Maybe there was a Santa Claus, and he'd just now found their location.
All three young turtles watched as their Sensei approached the tree and its presents. Splinter thoroughly examined each in turn. He shook the boxes, listened to them, and sniffed them. He touched every inch without actually unwrapping the presents, but he could find no sign of anything meant to harm them.
There were five boxes, and each had a name scrawled on it. Finally, Splinter opened the one with his name. He found a new robe and slippers as well as gift certificates for considerable amounts at the nearest grocery stores tucked into the pockets of his robe and each slipper. He puzzled over the gifts, then folded them carefully together and set them to the side.
"Sensei?" Donatello questioned, eyeing his every move.
"It would appear that some one has actually left genuine gifts for us. I believe it will do no harm for you to open your gifts now."
"Maser Spliner," Mikey's voice suddenly sounded, and all of his family looked to the tiniest turtle amongst them as he came forward, rubbing his tired eyes. "Whas goin' on?"
"Santa Claus came, Mikey," Don was the first to tell him.
Michelangelo's eyes popped open, and he gazed at the tree before gawking at the presents. "But -- But -- " He looked to Splinter and saw the robe. "But I was gonna make that for you! But it was too hard! I kept sticking myself, and then Raph said there's no such thing as Santa and Leo said I'd make you happy by cleaning my room and stuff! So I did it, and you barely even noticed! It's not fair!" he wailed. "I wanted to give you something good!!"
Raphael grimaced as Mikey began to cry at the top of his lungs. Leo stepped uncertainly to the side. Donnie started to move closer to his brother but hesitated when Splinter came forward.
Their Sensei stopped before the youngest child amongst them and knelt before him. "Michelangelo," he called to him, placing his old, furry hands on his trembling shoulders. "Michelangelo, look at me."
The baby turtle did, but the bottom half of his beak still quivered. His eyes remained full of tears spilling steadily down his green cheeks.
"Michelangelo, my . . . my son," Splinter spoke slowly, kindly, and wisely, "you need not give me any present for Christmas."
"But I wanted to, and I wanted it to be good and -- and -- "
Splinter placed a single claw softly upon Mikey's beak. "You have already given me the best present you ever could, Michelangelo."
The little turtle sniffed. "Really? Whas that?"
Splinter smiled at him. "Your love."
"Really?"
"Yes. I am so blessed to have you and your brothers in my life, and especially to have you love me."
"Well, you love us, too!"
"Yes. Yes, I most certainly do, Michelangelo, but still, I am thankful for your love." He wrapped his arms around him and brought him close in a tight hug. "And that you cleaned your room, cleaned up from dinner, and have been working so hard on your studies."
Mikey sniffled again. "You did notice," he said.
"Yes, I did. I notice everything you all do," Splinter told his children, his gaze encompassing them all and lingering, for a moment, on Donatello in particular. "Every day, in so many little ways, you show me you love me. You showed me when you cleaned your room. Raphael, you showed me when you chose not to try to sneak out tonight, and Leonardo, you show me every day in the way you care for your brothers." He hugged Mikey tighter. "I love you all, my sons."
He gestured with one paw for the others to come forward. They surrounded him, and he pulled them into the first group hug they'd shared since Raphael had been old enough to walk. They lingered there for several minutes, just enjoying the feeling of being pressed closely together in one, giant hug and the feel of their familial love basking over them all, before little Mikey asked, "So, hum, can we open our presents?"
Splinter laughed. He smiled fondly at him as he released him and his brothers. "Of course you may."
He watched as Michelangelo, Leonardo, and Raphael ripped into their presents. Only Donnie hung back.
"Donatello, are you not going to open your gift?"
"It's unnecessary," the purple-clad turtle answered with a rolling lift of his shoulders. "If it really is Santa who left the presents, I know what he left me."
"How?" Splinter asked, cocking his head to one side and studying his son.
"Because I only asked him for two things, and one I already have. I wanted everybody to be happy this Christmas, and for a change, I think we really are." Michelangelo was playing with his new toys while Leonardo tested his new katana. Even Raphael was playing with the brim of his fedora.
"Indeed we are," Master Splinter answered, his long tail curling around his heels. "I only wish there was some way I could thank this Santa Claus person for all he has done for us."
"I'm sure he knows you're grateful, Master Splinter. Giving to others is his purpose in life."
"It is a grand calling," Splinter acknowledged, beaming his approval upon his son. They spoke no more about it, but if Splinter heard Donnie humming Santa Claus Is Coming To Town when he carried Mikey back to bed much later and the elder boys tucked themselves in for the night, no one was wiser than the two of them and a certain, jovial holiday spirit who had watched over them all.
Donatello was fast asleep that night when he heard the distinct clicking of reins. His eyes opened to the sounds of hooves running over the road above them. He jumped up in bed as he heard a stranger call out joyously, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!" Maybe science was wrong, he thought, and when he woke up the next morning to a brand new computer system that was far more advanced than the one he had built for himself, Donatello knew. Science was sometimes wrong. Magic did happen, but still, he thought, watching as Splinter made breakfast for his brothers and himself, there was no greater magic than that of the love of a family destined to be together.
The End , rated PG/K+
7. Labyrinth's Jareth/Sarah and Ensemble in
"Hey, lady! Look at me!"
"Yeah! Look at us! Look at us!"
"This is so cool, man!"
"Come on; you should try it! You don't have to take off your head."
"The Queen doesn't like to take off her head."
"I know; I know! But you don't have to, lady. Just take off an ear and hang it over here!"
"Or a toe!"
"Or a finger!"
"Or your nose!"
Sarah blinks, finally managing to pull herself free from the shock that began to set in the moment she saw the Fieries. They had always been strange creatures, but surely even with all the bizarre inhabitants of the labyrinth, she had never seen anything more strange than the Christmas tree on which their heads are now hanging.
She shakes her own head and resists the urge to check her neck and make certain that it isn't trying to become detached from her body. "This isn't right," she murmurs, and then, louder, she repeats, "This isn't right!"
"We redo tree," the nearest Goblin offers.
Sarah nods fervently. "Make sure you do, and this time, no live ornaments."
"No live ornaments at all?"
"None."
"Then what we use?"
Sarah closes her eyes for a moment and mentally counts to ten. She's had this conversation at least that number of times with the Goblins already today. If she had ever stopped to consider how difficult it was going to be to teach them about her favorite holiday, she never would have attempted. "Ribbons," she answers at last, "yarn, anything bright and shiny -- "
"But the Fieries are bright and shiny!"
"Yeah, man! We cool orange!"
"Anything not alive that's bright and shiny," amends Sarah. She smiles as an idea occurs to her. "Get Sir Didymus to help you." The little Knight has a flair for fashion, but then Sarah frowns as she recalls his sense of smell. "Just don't let him get anything from the Bog of Eternal Stench anywhere near the tree," she emphasizes.
"Hogit said he could catch Fairies for us to use."
"Nothing alive," Sarah reminds them.
"They don't haveta be alive, do they?"
"Nah. Hogit shoots 'em pretty good."
"Their wings are pretty and shiny, too."
"We could just cut off their wings."
"Hogit do it for us. He no like Faeries."
"No!" Sarah exclaims, and every head in the grand hall swings to look at her. "No," she clears her throat and repeats again in a calmer voice. "Nothing alive."
"We could kill -- "
"Nothing alive. Nothing that has been alive. Nothing that has ever been a part of anything that has ever been alive."
The Goblins around her sigh. One of the nearest shakes his ears. "This harder 'n I thought."
Sarah releases a breath. "Yeah," she mutters, "you can say that again." Louder, she commands, "Now go find Sir Didymus and enlist his help." She stares at the Fieries for another moment. "And you lot, get off the tree."
"Aw, man!"
Their ears wriggle, and although they look like they're about to complain further, Sarah's glowering look which she has unconsciously picked up from their King silences their complaints. Bodies rise from around the tree's skirt and begin reaching blindly for their heads. Sarah sees something large and scaly scurry further underneath the skirt, opens her mouth to ask, and shuts it again before she can speak. Shaking her head yet again, the Queen decides she'd really rather not know at this moment and resumes her trek to the kitchen to check on preparations there.
The kitchen, she soon finds, is bustling with sounds and smells, not all of which are good. Chickens squawk, and other beasts make other noises. She steps to the side as a two-headed bird flaps pass her. One of the many Goblins to whom she gave the duty of helping the cook rushes after the bird, and she tries to ignore their struggle as she turns her back to them and faces the oven instead.
"How are we coming along with the meal for tonight?"
The lead Goblin sputters an array of words, only a few of which Sarah recognizes. Finally, she looks at her and spits out, "Fine, fine," before returning to her many, bubbling pots. Sarah frowns, not at all convinced that the meal is coming along fine in the slightest. She's seen the chef look that way before and knows that is her typical answer when she is trying to avoid the end of her husband's boot.
She starts to step closer, but one of the smaller, more dainty Goblins pops up by her side. "Queenie try this," the little, green beast offers, raising a wooden spoon with a pasty, white liquid on it.
Sarah quirks an eyebrow at the concoction. "What is it?" she asks.
"Eggnog drink, just like Queenie asked for."
The Goblin holds the spoon higher; Sarah daintily, carefully sniffs the concoction. She pulls her long, black hair up out of the way and sniffs it again. Finally, not having smelled anything particularly bad coming from the drink, Sarah accepts the spoon the Goblin is sticking at her and takes a careful, tiny sip. She immediately spews the drink and winces guiltily as she realizes that she has done something she's often scolded Jareth for and spat on a Goblin.
"I'm sorry," she immediately apologizes. "So, so sorry!"
"Hey!" the wet Goblin exclaims brightly. "I got Queenie's first spit!"
"I'm sorry -- "
"Lucky!"
"Hey, Queenie, spit on me!"
"Spit this way!"
"Spit here!"
Sarah pulls back, closes her eyes again, and once more counts to ten. The Goblins are all so strange, and she fears she may never become accustomed to their ways. She remembers hearing once, as a child, about a fictional race of people who considered it an honor for their King to spit on them, but she never would have believed that the Goblins would consider spittle an honor, even though Jareth had tried many times to convince her otherwise, until now.
Another bird screams, and Sarah's eyes pop open. She surveys the mess in the kitchen. There is so much wrong here, so many things she needs to correct, and so many little, green faces looking up at her for approval. She sighs. Perhaps she should have just made all the Christmas festivities herself, but it would have taken her forever to make a meal large enough for the entire kingdom to enjoy.
"Queenie not happy." She looks down at the Goblin nearest her, the one still holding the spoon and the awful thing she is mistakenly calling eggnog, and sees her eyes beginning to tear up. Her green, bottom lip trembles, and Sarah's heart reaches out to the little thing.
"I'm sorry, Sophie," she apologizes, kneeling down beside the tiny Goblin. Every one of the Goblin's birth names is unpronounceable to her human tongue, but Sarah has renamed them all with names as close to their real name as possible but names which she can pronounce.
"It really that bad?"
"It is pretty awful." Sarah nods with the truth.
Sophie wails and drops the bucket of eggnog and spoon onto the floor. "Sophie do nothing right!" she cries.
"Shush," Sarah speaks to her, touching her tiny, bony shoulders and bringing her closer to her. "It's not your fault, Sophie."
"Sophie screw up! Bad Sophie! Stupid Sophie!"
"You're not bad," Sarah tells her, "and you're not stupid, either." She raises her warty chin with one hand and makes her look at her. "It's not your fault."
"But Sophie make it! Sophie screw it up!"
"Who helped you, Sophie? Where did you get the ingredients from, and did you get everything on the list I gave you?"
"N-No." Sophie's chin trembles in Sarah's hand. "Couldn't find many things on list. Hogwart says they only up above ground, but we have other things here in labyrinth that we can use for subs-substi-substu- " Her little face screws up as she tries to say the word, and Sarah waits with forced patience. " -- in place of them," Sophie finally finishes.
"Hoggle was wrong," Sarah tells her. "We must have those ingredients. You tell him I said so and that he is to send some one above ground, if need be, to get them. We must have exactly what is on that list. No substitutes. Where is the list?"
"Hoglet has it."
"I'll make you a new one, but you be sure to tell him that I said we must have exactly what is on the list and in the number that I list it."
"Hoget will . . . "
"Hoggle will do nothing but what you tell him to. Tell him I said you're in charge, and if he doesn't like it, . . . " She thinks quickly and almost says that he can take the issue up with Jareth's boot, but she is determined not to be mean this Christmas. "If he doesn't like it, tell him I said Santa will bring him no plastic."
"No plastic?" The words are spoken with shock and great dismay behind her. "But . . . But I've waited all year!"
"Yes," Sarah agrees, turning to face Hoggle. "You have waited all year. We all have to celebrate this Christmas, and we're going to get it right this year. That includes getting the right ingredients and making the eggnog right. Do you still have the list, Hoggle?"
He searches in the many pockets on his vest for a moment before finding it in an inside pocket. He brings out the paper, and Sarah makes a face, before she can stop the impulse, at the sogging wet parchment. "I'll make a new one," she says, standing, "and you are to gather exactly what is on the list, and in the amount that I list it, and you are to listen to Sophie no matter what. She is in charge. Do you understand me?"
When he doesn't answer, she looks down and finds him glowering angrily at the little Goblin, who quivers before him. "Hoggle!" Sarah snaps. "Do you want the plastic or not?" she demands, but he is taken aback by the dark look on her delicate face that asks instead, Do you want my husband's boot or not?
"Yeah. Yeah. I'll get the grub."
Sarah walks over to a small desk in the far corner of the kitchen. She unrolls a fresh piece of parchment, dips a quill in ink, and quickly makes the list again. She walks back to Hoggle and slips in between him and Sophie. Sophie eyes the Dwarf nervously from around the edge of Sarah's full, red skirt. "Hoggle," Sarah snaps, her patience wearing thin, "I am not going to tell you again."
"She started it."
"I doubt that, and I am not going to argue -- "
"Indeed, the Queen is correct." A smooth, regal voice that will bear no argument cuts through the chaos in the kitchen like a knife sliding through butter. Hoggle gulps and hits his knees, as do several of the other Goblins. All cease their work instantaneously. "She will not argue with you, not with any of you, and will do exactly as she says with no complaints. Am I understood?"
"Y-Yes, Your Majesty," Hoggle quickly answers, and Sarah is unable to stop the smile that spreads over her lips from the way he is now trembling from head to toe.
"If she commands you to go to the above world to fetch ingredients, that is exactly what you will do. If she tells you to take your secondary orders from a Goblin, even a female one, you will do so. If she tells you to kiss your feet in the Bog of Eternal Stench, you will do that as well."
Hoggle slowly raises his face from the stone floor. "Sarah's never -- "
"Precisely." Jareth's smile sends shivers down every spine but his and Sarah's. "She has never told you so, because she is far too nice a Queen, far nicer than any of you deserve. Now get out of my sight and get to work."
"Yes, sir!" Hoggle runs as though his very life depends on his departure.
Jareth looks around at the remaining Goblins, who are all staring up at him. "Well?" He claps his gloved hands together once. "Return to your work, slaves. You all have your orders."
They scramble to get back to their tasks, and Jareth steps smoothly between the bodies running all around his and Sarah's feet. He reaches out, his elegant fingers brushing over the flesh of her neck, as he gathers her hair back together and sweeps it behind the collar of her white blouse. He smiles at her, and suddenly, Sarah no longer hears the bustle of the kitchen workers. She sees only him and hears only their hearts beating together as one. "Are you quite certain you want this responsibility, my Queen?" he asks softly as he magically whisks her from the kitchen.
"Yes," she answers without hesitation. She beams up at him. "I want you to experience a real Christmas, my husband."
His answering smile makes her heart flutter. He cares nothing for Christmas, at least not yet, but he does care about making her happy and loves it when she calls him her husband, even more so than when she calls him her King. "There is one of your human traditions," he admits, one hand cupping the side of her face and neck, "about which I must confess a certain curiosity."
"Which one?" she asks and knows he can hear her heart hammering in excitement.
His fingers slide over her flesh, his fingertips coiling in her silken strands as they massage the back of her earlobe. His eyes glisten with the knowledge of what he is doing to her as she almost sighs already. She is melting in his hands, melting against him, and she can feel how hard he is for her through the pants he wears so tightly.
His free hand makes a flourishing gesture, and Sarah realizes that they are in their bedroom, standing before their bed, as she follows the gesture of his hand to the sprigs of mistletoe he's magically hung above their bed. She smiles and starts to speak, but with only a thought from Jareth, their clothes vanish. Little bits of mistletoe hang on every inch of his magnificent, nude body. Sarah's breath takes in sharply, and this time, her heart does hammer like a drum.
He marches to that drum as he sways against her, pulling her as close against his length as a second skin. "You always kiss beneath the mistletoe, right?"
"Oh, yeah," Sarah breathes, cupping his face, running her fingers along his flesh, and leaning up to kiss his lips.
His tongue dives into her mouth; her tongue answers his thrust. He lays her across their bed as a waltz plays somewhere in their bedroom. Her legs wrap around his as he enters the sweetest home he's ever known. Her mouth lifts from his, and as she feels his imperial tongue on her breasts, she begins to move each piece of mistletoe and kiss beneath it. He moves inside her, diving deeper. She answers him with a gasp she silences by tenderly biting both his nipple and the leaf on top of it. No one here understands Christmas yet, but Sarah knows two things about the holiday now as surely as she knows she loves her King with all her heart and soul. By the time they are done, they will all understand Christmas, and this will also be the best, sweetest, most romantic, and most delicious Christmas she's ever had.
The End, rated NC-17/AO
8. Peter Pan's Hook/Smee in
When he awakes that morning, it is to his window to which he first creeps. He slides it open, and a scent too long gone from his world assails his nose. He closes his eyes for a moment. His mustache twitches as he breathes in the aroma a second time. He smells like ice cream, and he knows that the best cream comes from the white wonder falling from the sky. He looks out again, his own eyes alight with all the wonder of a child, all the wonder denied to him for far too long.
Quietly, he slides the window closed again and looks back to his bed. He smiles, seeing his lover still sleeping, and maintains his quietness as he dresses quickly and leaves their room, but not without placing a small package right where his love's hand will first go when he wakes. He almost skips down the stairs leading from his room. He can not remember a time when he has ever felt so light and carefree, but still he makes himself stay in just long enough to plant some more presents and whip together a quick but delicious breakfast.
All this he does while being as quiet as possible. Once done, he almost runs from his home. Everything outside is laden with a beautiful, almost mystical white. The world is quiet. There is no rush of traffic or roaring of waves. There is no dreadful alarm clock, the ticking of a croc, or the cry of a crow. There is no life around for miles and miles save those of the animals who also live way out here from the city of London and he and his beloved.
He lays in the snow. He dances in it, turning round and round to the music in his head. He throws back his head, opens his mouth, and lets a snowflake land on his tongue. He builds snowmen and draws a heart in the snow. All this he does, alone but not alone and in no fear of any danger befalling himself or the one person in all the world whom he loves.
Despite the creaks of his aging body, he has the heart of a child again. He has the freedom of a kid who doesn't care what anybody else thinks of what he does and of a man who knows there is no one to watch and judge him ever again. His spirit soars higher than the clouds from which the snow drifts downward onto him, and his heart flies even higher.
He hears the door when it opens and darts into hiding. He watches as his lover steps out onto the porch where they have spent many an afternoon rocking and watching the sun set together over the forest in this, their own land, their own home. James leans forward as Smee steps carefully down the small, wooden staircase leading to their porch. His smile grows as he notices that his life partner is indeed wearing the new pair of spectacles he left for him beside their bed and they seem to fit perfectly.
Smee looks around him in dawning wonder, and then he catches sight of the snowmen James has built. One is tall and not broad at all while the other is both shorter and more round. Smee steps closer, and then he spies the heart James drew in the snow before the two snowmen resembling them. As Smee draws closer for a better look, James darts around the snowmen and a few trees.
He waits until Smee is reading the message written to him in the large heart before coming up behind him. He tries to be silent, but it has been a long time since last he walked in snow. Indeed, it's been hundreds of years that they've been away, wasting time and wasting their lives together. Smee, however, pretends not to hear James' boots shifting through the snow until his husband lays his hands over his eyes.
"I'd tell you to guess who," James whispers beside Smee's ear, his beard tickling his lobe, "but there are only the two of us way out here."
Smee lets James turn him around and then beams up at him as he opens his eyes. His round, red nose is beaming brighter in the cold, and his pajamas actually fit him now although doing nothing to hide the chunkiness of his small body. Still, he is the most beautiful man James has ever seen. He caresses the left side of his face in a loving hand while his hook slides gently down his right. "Thank you, Smee. I should have listened to you long ago, my love."
Smee's brow furrows. "About what, Captain?" he asks, and for a change, James doesn't try to correct him. They are each other's Captains in this winter wonderland. There is no ship or crew or boy with which to contend, but they are truly the Captains of one another's hearts.
"About everything." James smiles somewhat wistfully. "But, most especially, about Neverland." They should've left there long ago. They had come easily enough by the means and could have done so long before he'd finally granted Smee's plea. The Fairies were always there, and they were only too eager to be rid of them back to the world from whence they had first come. The boy had known nothing about it, and Tinker Bell must have stayed true to her word because he still had not shown.
They had been here three years, and at long last, James was beginning to let go. He didn't miss Neverland or any of the headaches it had given them. He no longer even missed his ship most of the time, especially not on days like today. It never snowed on the high seas, after all, but here, it did snow. Here, he and his beloved Smee had their own private winter wonderland, and even when it wasn't Christmas, even when there wasn't snow on the ground, this private paradise was still all theirs.
His only lament, as he tells Smee now, is that he didn't listen to him sooner and didn't bring them home sooner. The battle against the boy was rather meaningless in the long term. Aye, it would've been nice to see the dratted boi crow his last on his hook, but the lad had far too much magic and youth on his side. James had been fighting a losing battle, but it had only been once they had left Neverland and settled here that he had at last come to see that he was wasting time.
Neverland did have immortality to offer, and here, they would grow. But there, every day he had gone against the boi, they had been lucky that one of them had not been killed. He had seen Peter slay many of his men over the years, and if the brat had ever gotten his sword into James' beloved Smee, he would've ended the both of them. He can see that now. He can see so much now, but what he wants to see the most is the same as it had been there: his beloved, cherished Smee smiling joyfully at him.
In the message, he had written words of love for his Smee. Each present inside their home, he had wrapped and bought with love and placed where Smee would find it on his way to follow him. Even the cooking of their simple breakfast had been done with love. Everything he did he did with love for Smee, and he has truly never felt better or happier.
"I know you love me, James," Smee is telling him now, and James' answering smile is broad and dazzling. What little sunlight there is reflects off of the snow and onto his big, white teeth.
"I'm just sorry," James replies honestly, embracing his husband, "that I didn't see it sooner."
"I'm not," Smee tells him, drawing back to look up into his handsome face.
"You're not?" puzzles James, his mustache twitching.
"No." Smee shakes his head. "As dangerous as Neverland was, we had far longer there than we do here."
James grows grave. He doesn't like thinking about the natural, short span of their human lives. If there's one thing he could still take from the boi, it would be his Immortality to share between the two of them, but he knows that isn't possible. "Do you . . . Do you want to go back?" he asks, his voice as quiet and soft as the winter wind sliding through the trees in the forest.
Smee doesn't even have to think about it. "No," he answers immediately, cupping James' face and caressing him tenderly. "We may not have aged there, but our lives were far from being Immortal, dear. That boi could've killed us at any time."
"Aye, and I thank God he didn't."
"As do I. We may not have as many years here as we would have there, but then, too, he might've killed us had we stayed one day longer. I am thankful for what we have here." His brilliant smile makes James' heart flutter. "I wouldn't have it any other way, unless we could've come home sooner."
For a moment, as he caresses Smee, James thinks about telling him that he is his home. It doesn't matter if they're here, in Neverland, or in London; if he has Smee beside him, he is home. But to do so might seem to belittle what this place has become to him. He won't do that, and he wants Smee to understand just how grateful he is for their life here. "I should've listened to you sooner, dearest," James answers instead, his mustache quivering, "and saved us sooner from the curse that was Pan."
"I couldn't see pass my anger at him. He took my hand; he threatened so many times to take your life. I wanted nothing more than to run my sword through the little brat! But I don't regret not killing him. If I had, we might never have made it home."
Smee smiles. "We would've found our way eventually," he tells him. "I wasn't about to let you go."
"Nor I you, my love." His hands run down his back; he pulls him closer against him in a tight hug. Through all their battles, those were the two things that had never changed: Smee had always been there for him, and James had never let him go.
"I don't know how many more years we have, Smee."
"Nor I, Captain. There's no way to know, I f-fear."
"It doesn't matter," James tells him, once more cupping his face. Smee doesn't tremble against the touch of his hook. He's the only one who doesn't fear him because of his hook, the only one James has ever loved, and the only one who's ever loved him. "What matters is that we spend every day together, my love, until that time and I get to show you all day, every day, and in every way how much I love you."
Smee beams up at him. "You already do that, Captain. Thank you for all the gifts, but the most special gift you could ever give me you already have with your love."
At one time, James would have made fun of any one speaking such smush, but here in the privacy of their very own wonderland, Smee's words warm his heart even more. "You've always been the only one who can do that," he confesses, kissing him.
"Do what?"
James grins cockily. "Reach my heart." It had been so cold and dead until Smee's gentle love had warmed it, and now, it feels more alive than ever before.
"My honor, C-Captain."
"No, Smee. It's mine: my honor to be loved by you, and my honor to spend every moment of however much longer we do have loving you in this wonderland your love has made for us." His mustache and the end of his black beard curl as he blushes at his own words. He's never been one to speak so romantically, but he speaks from the heart for his Smee, just as he now hears, in the quiet of the forest, two little drums beating out a pattern. "Do y'hear that?" he asks.
"What?" Smee puzzles.
"I do believe, Mister Smee, that our hearts are beating out a rhythm." His foot taps the snow. "A tango."
Smee grins. James has always loved to tango. They used to tango on the ship, and whenever one of his men would complain about their dance, James would shoot him dead. He's seen James kill many men over the years, but he's never once feared him. Most of those he has killed, also, have been because they had something ugly to say about the beauty of their love.
James bows before him now as snowflakes begin to drift down onto them once more. They light in his lover's hair and beard, and for a moment, Smee wants to reach out, grab them, touch them, perhaps even lick them where they linger on his James. But James has other motives, and Smee will always follow the Captain of his heart. "May I have this dance, Mister Smee?"
"Always, my Captain," he answers, taking his hand and hook without hesitation, "always." They dance in their winter wonderland and love each other happily ever after.
The End , rated PG-13/T
His little, green tail wagged as he climbed the railings. He'd seen his brothers climb them many times before and felt confident that he knew what he was doing. He was going up to the top world alone, and there he would find exactly what he needed. He pushed aside the grating that covered the hole leading to the outside world and was just about to take the final step when somebody grabbed his ankle and yanked him hard.
He yelled as he flew through the air and cried when he landed on his shell. "That hurt!" He rubbed his shell as his tears flowed.
"Serves you right," Raphael sneered down at him, "fer tryin' to sneak off. What the Hell were you thinking, Mikey?!"
"Ooo! I'm gonna tell Maser Spliner you said a bad word!"
"So what? You tell him I said a bad word. Tell him I hurt you even. I don't care." His older, and seemingly always angry brother, rolled his considerably stronger shoulders. "I'll tell 'im you were headed up to the upper world alone. Who do ya think's gonna get into trouble?"
Mikey's lower lip trembled. "Both of us," he answered to which Raphael rolled his eyes. Mikey opened his mouth and wailed at the top of his lungs.
"Shuddup!" Raphael jumped to his side and covered his wide open mouth with his hand. Mikey bit down on one of his three fingers, causing Raphael to yell this time. "What the heck did ya do that for?!"
"Why not? You were mean to me, so I was mean to you."
"I saved your little ass from going up there!"
"My little ass wanted to go up there."
"Well, it doesn't need to. It needs to stay down here!"
"You go up there all the time!"
"That's beside the point -- " Raphael's face suddenly fell. "Uh oh," he muttered. Then, he attempted, "Hum, hi, Sensei."
"Hello, Raphael." Splinter's tail swished behind him, moving the skirts of his old, purple robe. "What is this about your going to the above world 'all the time', and why is your brother crying?"
"I can explain." Raphael thought swiftly but knew he could come up with no excuse that would completely get him out of this problem. He might be able to persuade Splinter that he had nothing to do with the reason Michelangelo was crying, but he'd never again believe he wasn't venturing to the upper world by himself. No matter what he did or said, he was going to be doing flips until he was thirty. "Thanks a lot, Mikey," he ground out.
"Why don't you go ahead and start your three hundred flips, Raphael?" Although his Sensei voiced the command as a suggestion, Raphael knew it wasn't. He glowered at Mikey as he walked pass him but quickly began flipping.
It was three weeks later before Raphael dared to try to slip out of the lair again. He spied Mikey on the couch, doing something with a needle and thread, but chose to completely ignore his little brother. As the second youngest of the brothers approached him, Raphael darted around Donatello and out the open entrance.
"Mikey, whatcha got there?" Don asked, sitting down beside his baby brother. He could see the tears in his dark eyes and had noted the scent of blood the moment he'd entered the lair from his daily hunt through the nearby pipes for anything he might be able to use in his many inventions.
Mikey's frown deepened. "I been tryin' to learn how to sew, Donnie, but all I do is keep sticking myself!" Just as he said the words, the needle pierced his skin again. Mikey threw it and the purple thread as far as he could. "Hell!" he wailed.
The ridges above Donatello's eyes lifted. "Mikey, who have you been listening to?" he asked.
"Raphael."
Don sighed. "It figures. Mikey, you may not wanna listen to him. He'll get you into trouble, bro."
"He already did!"
Donatello frowned at that, having not heard about the previous incident when Michelangelo had tried to climb to the above world. Instead, he rose and picked up the needle and thread. "I can teach you how to sew, if you want me to," he offered gently.
But Mikey's mind was made up. He shook his head angrily with his beak pursed together. "No," he stated harshly. "All that stuff does is hurt me. I'm gonna have to find something else." He jumped up from the couch and ran from the room. "I just don't know what," were the last words Donatello heard. He worried over them for a moment but then remembered the invention he was working on and completely forgot about his little brother's problem.
=^.^=
Leonardo was the next of Mikey's older brothers to approach him. It was a week after Michelangelo had failed to learn how to sew and his small digits were just beginning to recover from the needle's numerous piercings. "Mikey," Leonardo asked, coming to sit down beside him after one of their daily training sessions, "Master Splinter told me he's worried about you. You haven't been cleaning your room, and you've been acting out in other ways. He says you even tried to go up to the humans' world!"
"I did," Mikey admitted, swinging his legs beneath the bench upon which they were sitting, "but he doesn't have ta worry about me. I'm good."
"Really? Where'd all the holes on your fingers come from then?"
"I tried to learn how to sew." The bottom half of his beak stuck out. "It didn't work."
"Why were you trying to learn to sew? You know Master Splinter will mend any holes we have in our uniforms."
"I know, but who mends his stuff? His robe is full of holes and all messy."
"You know, Mikey," Leo said, leaning in conspiratorially to his younger brother, "Master Splinter was also wondering what you want Santa Claus to bring you this year. I told him I'm sure Santa has it in his bag, but I haven't seen you write to him."
"That's 'cause I haven't. Raphael says he doesn't exist."
"He does, does he?" Leo asked, lacing his tone.
"Uh huh." Mikey nodded. "He says Maser Spliner gets everything for us, and that makes sense 'cause, really, whoever heard of Santa Claus giving chipped toys and coloring books that have a few of the pages ripped out of them?"
"Mikey . . . " Leo paused, his whole being growing rigid and solemn. He didn't want his little brother to lose his belief in Santa Claus, but he also didn't know how to explain this situation. Each of them had learned, over the last several years, that Master Splinter did indeed give them their presents, but it had been nice having the youngest of their family still being a believer.
"Santa Claus does exist," he said at last, " and he does try to find us, but we have to stay hidden from a human and he is kind of a human."
"He's supposed to be magic, Leo. He'd understand us if he was real. But he's not. Maser Spliner gives us everything. He does everything for us. He saved us, you know."
"I know," Leo returned, placing his hand gently over his little brother's.
"I just . . . " Mikey's face screwed up as he tried to find the words to explain the thought weighing heavily on his mind. "I wanna . . . "
"What, Mikey? What do you want?" urged Leo.
"I wanna give Maser Spliner something very good, something that shows him up how much I love him and how much he means to me. We wouldn't have anything at all if not for him."
Leo squeezed his brother's hand. "We'd still have each other, but you're right. Master Splinter does do a great deal for us. He's our dad, and he protects us and saves us and makes us happy."
"I wanna make him happy."
"If you really do, Mikey, the best way," Leo advised, "is to do what you're supposed to do. Clean your room. Stay safe. Go to bed when we're supposed to. Do everything he asks you to. Then he won't have to worry about you."
"You think he worries about us?"
"All the time. Especially you." Leo grabbed him in a big hug. "You're our youngest. We can't have anything happening to you!"
"And you really think doing stuff like cleaning my room is the best way I can thank him?"
"I know it is."
MIkey hugged him tightly. "Thanks, Leo," he blurted out and then ran to make his Sensei's Christmas wish come true.
=^.^=
When Christmas Eve arrived, Mikey could barely be still. He ate every bite of food on his plate, even though it wasn't his favorite and the only one he really wanted to eat, pizza, cleaned away the dishes, tidied the kitchen, and then laid down in his little cot. He was still squirming when their Sensei stepped into the room to check on him.
"Michelangelo," he asked, the tip of his wiry tail twitching, "whatever is the problem?"
"Did you notice, Sensei? Huh? Huh? Did you?"
Slowly, the old rat smiled. "Yes, Michelangelo," he assured the young turtle, "I have noticed that you have been very good today. I am quite certain that Santa Claus will bring you something very special."
"I'm not worried about what Santa's gonna bring," he blurted.
Splinter's furry eyebrows rose slightly. "You're not?" he asked in surprise.
"Nope. Not at all. I'm worried about what you think. You are Santa Claus."
"Michelangelo, I am not -- "
"Well, maybe not Santa Santa. The real Santa doesn't exist. But you're our Santa Claus and -- "
"HO! HO! HO!"
Splinter whipped his staff out from underneath his robe and to the ready. Michelangelo jumped to his feet. "What was that?!" he cried, eyes wide.
"I don't know." Splinter's tail whipped through the air with his admission. "Stay here. Stay quiet and hidden until you hear from me."
"Yes, Sensei," Mikey answered without pause. He rolled back into his bed, pulled the covers up over his head, and peeked out, all while trying to make it look like he wasn't there.
Splinter noticed none of this, however, for he had already left the room, running at full speed to where the cry had sounded in the very entrance of their home. He paused in surprise as he took in the scene before him, only stirring again when Leonardo and Raphael bumped into his back. Keeping his staff at the ready, he reached with his free hand to his sons and tucked them both into line behind him.
"What's wrong, Sensei?" Leonardo whispered urgently. "Where's the enemy?"
"Yeah. Whose lights do I get to punch out tonight?" growled Raphael.
"No one," Splinter answered, slowly edging into the den.
"Sensei, what happened to the tree?"
Splinter blinked as he stared at the Christmas tree. He rose up to his full height and sniffed all around. He frowned as his puzzlement grew. He smelled no other scents of living beings other than himself, his sons, and the bugs that never left them as they had to live in the sewer. He kept wishing Donatello would invent something that would stop the pestering insects, but every time Don found something, the bugs quickly adapted and came again.
"It would appear," Splinter answered slowly, "that some one has replaced it for us." They had had a scrawny, small tree which another family had thrown out to the garbage. All its ornaments had been handmade, either by himself or his sons with things he had found in his travels through the New York sewage system. That tree was gone. In its place stood a towering pine that reached all the way to the top of the pipes that passed for their roof. All the handmade ornaments were still there, but many others, glistening and apparently new, had been added. Whoever had changed the tree had to have had the stealth of a ninja for not a single bell had chimed throughout the entire switch.
Underneath the tree were brightly wrapped objects that looked like presents. Splinter tapped each in turn with the end of his staff, still expecting an enemy to spring into life. When nothing happened, he edged closer but still waved to his sons to stay where they were.
Donatello came up behind Leonardo and Raphael. "Sensei," he asked, yawning, "what's happening?"
Raphael snorted. "Freaking Santa Claus came, dude."
"Science has proven there is no such individual."
"Maybe science is wrong for a change," whispered Leo. Maybe they all were. Maybe there was a Santa Claus, and he'd just now found their location.
All three young turtles watched as their Sensei approached the tree and its presents. Splinter thoroughly examined each in turn. He shook the boxes, listened to them, and sniffed them. He touched every inch without actually unwrapping the presents, but he could find no sign of anything meant to harm them.
There were five boxes, and each had a name scrawled on it. Finally, Splinter opened the one with his name. He found a new robe and slippers as well as gift certificates for considerable amounts at the nearest grocery stores tucked into the pockets of his robe and each slipper. He puzzled over the gifts, then folded them carefully together and set them to the side.
"Sensei?" Donatello questioned, eyeing his every move.
"It would appear that some one has actually left genuine gifts for us. I believe it will do no harm for you to open your gifts now."
"Maser Spliner," Mikey's voice suddenly sounded, and all of his family looked to the tiniest turtle amongst them as he came forward, rubbing his tired eyes. "Whas goin' on?"
"Santa Claus came, Mikey," Don was the first to tell him.
Michelangelo's eyes popped open, and he gazed at the tree before gawking at the presents. "But -- But -- " He looked to Splinter and saw the robe. "But I was gonna make that for you! But it was too hard! I kept sticking myself, and then Raph said there's no such thing as Santa and Leo said I'd make you happy by cleaning my room and stuff! So I did it, and you barely even noticed! It's not fair!" he wailed. "I wanted to give you something good!!"
Raphael grimaced as Mikey began to cry at the top of his lungs. Leo stepped uncertainly to the side. Donnie started to move closer to his brother but hesitated when Splinter came forward.
Their Sensei stopped before the youngest child amongst them and knelt before him. "Michelangelo," he called to him, placing his old, furry hands on his trembling shoulders. "Michelangelo, look at me."
The baby turtle did, but the bottom half of his beak still quivered. His eyes remained full of tears spilling steadily down his green cheeks.
"Michelangelo, my . . . my son," Splinter spoke slowly, kindly, and wisely, "you need not give me any present for Christmas."
"But I wanted to, and I wanted it to be good and -- and -- "
Splinter placed a single claw softly upon Mikey's beak. "You have already given me the best present you ever could, Michelangelo."
The little turtle sniffed. "Really? Whas that?"
Splinter smiled at him. "Your love."
"Really?"
"Yes. I am so blessed to have you and your brothers in my life, and especially to have you love me."
"Well, you love us, too!"
"Yes. Yes, I most certainly do, Michelangelo, but still, I am thankful for your love." He wrapped his arms around him and brought him close in a tight hug. "And that you cleaned your room, cleaned up from dinner, and have been working so hard on your studies."
Mikey sniffled again. "You did notice," he said.
"Yes, I did. I notice everything you all do," Splinter told his children, his gaze encompassing them all and lingering, for a moment, on Donatello in particular. "Every day, in so many little ways, you show me you love me. You showed me when you cleaned your room. Raphael, you showed me when you chose not to try to sneak out tonight, and Leonardo, you show me every day in the way you care for your brothers." He hugged Mikey tighter. "I love you all, my sons."
He gestured with one paw for the others to come forward. They surrounded him, and he pulled them into the first group hug they'd shared since Raphael had been old enough to walk. They lingered there for several minutes, just enjoying the feeling of being pressed closely together in one, giant hug and the feel of their familial love basking over them all, before little Mikey asked, "So, hum, can we open our presents?"
Splinter laughed. He smiled fondly at him as he released him and his brothers. "Of course you may."
He watched as Michelangelo, Leonardo, and Raphael ripped into their presents. Only Donnie hung back.
"Donatello, are you not going to open your gift?"
"It's unnecessary," the purple-clad turtle answered with a rolling lift of his shoulders. "If it really is Santa who left the presents, I know what he left me."
"How?" Splinter asked, cocking his head to one side and studying his son.
"Because I only asked him for two things, and one I already have. I wanted everybody to be happy this Christmas, and for a change, I think we really are." Michelangelo was playing with his new toys while Leonardo tested his new katana. Even Raphael was playing with the brim of his fedora.
"Indeed we are," Master Splinter answered, his long tail curling around his heels. "I only wish there was some way I could thank this Santa Claus person for all he has done for us."
"I'm sure he knows you're grateful, Master Splinter. Giving to others is his purpose in life."
"It is a grand calling," Splinter acknowledged, beaming his approval upon his son. They spoke no more about it, but if Splinter heard Donnie humming Santa Claus Is Coming To Town when he carried Mikey back to bed much later and the elder boys tucked themselves in for the night, no one was wiser than the two of them and a certain, jovial holiday spirit who had watched over them all.
Donatello was fast asleep that night when he heard the distinct clicking of reins. His eyes opened to the sounds of hooves running over the road above them. He jumped up in bed as he heard a stranger call out joyously, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!" Maybe science was wrong, he thought, and when he woke up the next morning to a brand new computer system that was far more advanced than the one he had built for himself, Donatello knew. Science was sometimes wrong. Magic did happen, but still, he thought, watching as Splinter made breakfast for his brothers and himself, there was no greater magic than that of the love of a family destined to be together.
The End , rated PG/K+
7. Labyrinth's Jareth/Sarah and Ensemble in
"Hey, lady! Look at me!"
"Yeah! Look at us! Look at us!"
"This is so cool, man!"
"Come on; you should try it! You don't have to take off your head."
"The Queen doesn't like to take off her head."
"I know; I know! But you don't have to, lady. Just take off an ear and hang it over here!"
"Or a toe!"
"Or a finger!"
"Or your nose!"
Sarah blinks, finally managing to pull herself free from the shock that began to set in the moment she saw the Fieries. They had always been strange creatures, but surely even with all the bizarre inhabitants of the labyrinth, she had never seen anything more strange than the Christmas tree on which their heads are now hanging.
She shakes her own head and resists the urge to check her neck and make certain that it isn't trying to become detached from her body. "This isn't right," she murmurs, and then, louder, she repeats, "This isn't right!"
"We redo tree," the nearest Goblin offers.
Sarah nods fervently. "Make sure you do, and this time, no live ornaments."
"No live ornaments at all?"
"None."
"Then what we use?"
Sarah closes her eyes for a moment and mentally counts to ten. She's had this conversation at least that number of times with the Goblins already today. If she had ever stopped to consider how difficult it was going to be to teach them about her favorite holiday, she never would have attempted. "Ribbons," she answers at last, "yarn, anything bright and shiny -- "
"But the Fieries are bright and shiny!"
"Yeah, man! We cool orange!"
"Anything not alive that's bright and shiny," amends Sarah. She smiles as an idea occurs to her. "Get Sir Didymus to help you." The little Knight has a flair for fashion, but then Sarah frowns as she recalls his sense of smell. "Just don't let him get anything from the Bog of Eternal Stench anywhere near the tree," she emphasizes.
"Hogit said he could catch Fairies for us to use."
"Nothing alive," Sarah reminds them.
"They don't haveta be alive, do they?"
"Nah. Hogit shoots 'em pretty good."
"Their wings are pretty and shiny, too."
"We could just cut off their wings."
"Hogit do it for us. He no like Faeries."
"No!" Sarah exclaims, and every head in the grand hall swings to look at her. "No," she clears her throat and repeats again in a calmer voice. "Nothing alive."
"We could kill -- "
"Nothing alive. Nothing that has been alive. Nothing that has ever been a part of anything that has ever been alive."
The Goblins around her sigh. One of the nearest shakes his ears. "This harder 'n I thought."
Sarah releases a breath. "Yeah," she mutters, "you can say that again." Louder, she commands, "Now go find Sir Didymus and enlist his help." She stares at the Fieries for another moment. "And you lot, get off the tree."
"Aw, man!"
Their ears wriggle, and although they look like they're about to complain further, Sarah's glowering look which she has unconsciously picked up from their King silences their complaints. Bodies rise from around the tree's skirt and begin reaching blindly for their heads. Sarah sees something large and scaly scurry further underneath the skirt, opens her mouth to ask, and shuts it again before she can speak. Shaking her head yet again, the Queen decides she'd really rather not know at this moment and resumes her trek to the kitchen to check on preparations there.
The kitchen, she soon finds, is bustling with sounds and smells, not all of which are good. Chickens squawk, and other beasts make other noises. She steps to the side as a two-headed bird flaps pass her. One of the many Goblins to whom she gave the duty of helping the cook rushes after the bird, and she tries to ignore their struggle as she turns her back to them and faces the oven instead.
"How are we coming along with the meal for tonight?"
The lead Goblin sputters an array of words, only a few of which Sarah recognizes. Finally, she looks at her and spits out, "Fine, fine," before returning to her many, bubbling pots. Sarah frowns, not at all convinced that the meal is coming along fine in the slightest. She's seen the chef look that way before and knows that is her typical answer when she is trying to avoid the end of her husband's boot.
She starts to step closer, but one of the smaller, more dainty Goblins pops up by her side. "Queenie try this," the little, green beast offers, raising a wooden spoon with a pasty, white liquid on it.
Sarah quirks an eyebrow at the concoction. "What is it?" she asks.
"Eggnog drink, just like Queenie asked for."
The Goblin holds the spoon higher; Sarah daintily, carefully sniffs the concoction. She pulls her long, black hair up out of the way and sniffs it again. Finally, not having smelled anything particularly bad coming from the drink, Sarah accepts the spoon the Goblin is sticking at her and takes a careful, tiny sip. She immediately spews the drink and winces guiltily as she realizes that she has done something she's often scolded Jareth for and spat on a Goblin.
"I'm sorry," she immediately apologizes. "So, so sorry!"
"Hey!" the wet Goblin exclaims brightly. "I got Queenie's first spit!"
"I'm sorry -- "
"Lucky!"
"Hey, Queenie, spit on me!"
"Spit this way!"
"Spit here!"
Sarah pulls back, closes her eyes again, and once more counts to ten. The Goblins are all so strange, and she fears she may never become accustomed to their ways. She remembers hearing once, as a child, about a fictional race of people who considered it an honor for their King to spit on them, but she never would have believed that the Goblins would consider spittle an honor, even though Jareth had tried many times to convince her otherwise, until now.
Another bird screams, and Sarah's eyes pop open. She surveys the mess in the kitchen. There is so much wrong here, so many things she needs to correct, and so many little, green faces looking up at her for approval. She sighs. Perhaps she should have just made all the Christmas festivities herself, but it would have taken her forever to make a meal large enough for the entire kingdom to enjoy.
"Queenie not happy." She looks down at the Goblin nearest her, the one still holding the spoon and the awful thing she is mistakenly calling eggnog, and sees her eyes beginning to tear up. Her green, bottom lip trembles, and Sarah's heart reaches out to the little thing.
"I'm sorry, Sophie," she apologizes, kneeling down beside the tiny Goblin. Every one of the Goblin's birth names is unpronounceable to her human tongue, but Sarah has renamed them all with names as close to their real name as possible but names which she can pronounce.
"It really that bad?"
"It is pretty awful." Sarah nods with the truth.
Sophie wails and drops the bucket of eggnog and spoon onto the floor. "Sophie do nothing right!" she cries.
"Shush," Sarah speaks to her, touching her tiny, bony shoulders and bringing her closer to her. "It's not your fault, Sophie."
"Sophie screw up! Bad Sophie! Stupid Sophie!"
"You're not bad," Sarah tells her, "and you're not stupid, either." She raises her warty chin with one hand and makes her look at her. "It's not your fault."
"But Sophie make it! Sophie screw it up!"
"Who helped you, Sophie? Where did you get the ingredients from, and did you get everything on the list I gave you?"
"N-No." Sophie's chin trembles in Sarah's hand. "Couldn't find many things on list. Hogwart says they only up above ground, but we have other things here in labyrinth that we can use for subs-substi-substu- " Her little face screws up as she tries to say the word, and Sarah waits with forced patience. " -- in place of them," Sophie finally finishes.
"Hoggle was wrong," Sarah tells her. "We must have those ingredients. You tell him I said so and that he is to send some one above ground, if need be, to get them. We must have exactly what is on that list. No substitutes. Where is the list?"
"Hoglet has it."
"I'll make you a new one, but you be sure to tell him that I said we must have exactly what is on the list and in the number that I list it."
"Hoget will . . . "
"Hoggle will do nothing but what you tell him to. Tell him I said you're in charge, and if he doesn't like it, . . . " She thinks quickly and almost says that he can take the issue up with Jareth's boot, but she is determined not to be mean this Christmas. "If he doesn't like it, tell him I said Santa will bring him no plastic."
"No plastic?" The words are spoken with shock and great dismay behind her. "But . . . But I've waited all year!"
"Yes," Sarah agrees, turning to face Hoggle. "You have waited all year. We all have to celebrate this Christmas, and we're going to get it right this year. That includes getting the right ingredients and making the eggnog right. Do you still have the list, Hoggle?"
He searches in the many pockets on his vest for a moment before finding it in an inside pocket. He brings out the paper, and Sarah makes a face, before she can stop the impulse, at the sogging wet parchment. "I'll make a new one," she says, standing, "and you are to gather exactly what is on the list, and in the amount that I list it, and you are to listen to Sophie no matter what. She is in charge. Do you understand me?"
When he doesn't answer, she looks down and finds him glowering angrily at the little Goblin, who quivers before him. "Hoggle!" Sarah snaps. "Do you want the plastic or not?" she demands, but he is taken aback by the dark look on her delicate face that asks instead, Do you want my husband's boot or not?
"Yeah. Yeah. I'll get the grub."
Sarah walks over to a small desk in the far corner of the kitchen. She unrolls a fresh piece of parchment, dips a quill in ink, and quickly makes the list again. She walks back to Hoggle and slips in between him and Sophie. Sophie eyes the Dwarf nervously from around the edge of Sarah's full, red skirt. "Hoggle," Sarah snaps, her patience wearing thin, "I am not going to tell you again."
"She started it."
"I doubt that, and I am not going to argue -- "
"Indeed, the Queen is correct." A smooth, regal voice that will bear no argument cuts through the chaos in the kitchen like a knife sliding through butter. Hoggle gulps and hits his knees, as do several of the other Goblins. All cease their work instantaneously. "She will not argue with you, not with any of you, and will do exactly as she says with no complaints. Am I understood?"
"Y-Yes, Your Majesty," Hoggle quickly answers, and Sarah is unable to stop the smile that spreads over her lips from the way he is now trembling from head to toe.
"If she commands you to go to the above world to fetch ingredients, that is exactly what you will do. If she tells you to take your secondary orders from a Goblin, even a female one, you will do so. If she tells you to kiss your feet in the Bog of Eternal Stench, you will do that as well."
Hoggle slowly raises his face from the stone floor. "Sarah's never -- "
"Precisely." Jareth's smile sends shivers down every spine but his and Sarah's. "She has never told you so, because she is far too nice a Queen, far nicer than any of you deserve. Now get out of my sight and get to work."
"Yes, sir!" Hoggle runs as though his very life depends on his departure.
Jareth looks around at the remaining Goblins, who are all staring up at him. "Well?" He claps his gloved hands together once. "Return to your work, slaves. You all have your orders."
They scramble to get back to their tasks, and Jareth steps smoothly between the bodies running all around his and Sarah's feet. He reaches out, his elegant fingers brushing over the flesh of her neck, as he gathers her hair back together and sweeps it behind the collar of her white blouse. He smiles at her, and suddenly, Sarah no longer hears the bustle of the kitchen workers. She sees only him and hears only their hearts beating together as one. "Are you quite certain you want this responsibility, my Queen?" he asks softly as he magically whisks her from the kitchen.
"Yes," she answers without hesitation. She beams up at him. "I want you to experience a real Christmas, my husband."
His answering smile makes her heart flutter. He cares nothing for Christmas, at least not yet, but he does care about making her happy and loves it when she calls him her husband, even more so than when she calls him her King. "There is one of your human traditions," he admits, one hand cupping the side of her face and neck, "about which I must confess a certain curiosity."
"Which one?" she asks and knows he can hear her heart hammering in excitement.
His fingers slide over her flesh, his fingertips coiling in her silken strands as they massage the back of her earlobe. His eyes glisten with the knowledge of what he is doing to her as she almost sighs already. She is melting in his hands, melting against him, and she can feel how hard he is for her through the pants he wears so tightly.
His free hand makes a flourishing gesture, and Sarah realizes that they are in their bedroom, standing before their bed, as she follows the gesture of his hand to the sprigs of mistletoe he's magically hung above their bed. She smiles and starts to speak, but with only a thought from Jareth, their clothes vanish. Little bits of mistletoe hang on every inch of his magnificent, nude body. Sarah's breath takes in sharply, and this time, her heart does hammer like a drum.
He marches to that drum as he sways against her, pulling her as close against his length as a second skin. "You always kiss beneath the mistletoe, right?"
"Oh, yeah," Sarah breathes, cupping his face, running her fingers along his flesh, and leaning up to kiss his lips.
His tongue dives into her mouth; her tongue answers his thrust. He lays her across their bed as a waltz plays somewhere in their bedroom. Her legs wrap around his as he enters the sweetest home he's ever known. Her mouth lifts from his, and as she feels his imperial tongue on her breasts, she begins to move each piece of mistletoe and kiss beneath it. He moves inside her, diving deeper. She answers him with a gasp she silences by tenderly biting both his nipple and the leaf on top of it. No one here understands Christmas yet, but Sarah knows two things about the holiday now as surely as she knows she loves her King with all her heart and soul. By the time they are done, they will all understand Christmas, and this will also be the best, sweetest, most romantic, and most delicious Christmas she's ever had.
The End, rated NC-17/AO
8. Peter Pan's Hook/Smee in
When he awakes that morning, it is to his window to which he first creeps. He slides it open, and a scent too long gone from his world assails his nose. He closes his eyes for a moment. His mustache twitches as he breathes in the aroma a second time. He smells like ice cream, and he knows that the best cream comes from the white wonder falling from the sky. He looks out again, his own eyes alight with all the wonder of a child, all the wonder denied to him for far too long.
Quietly, he slides the window closed again and looks back to his bed. He smiles, seeing his lover still sleeping, and maintains his quietness as he dresses quickly and leaves their room, but not without placing a small package right where his love's hand will first go when he wakes. He almost skips down the stairs leading from his room. He can not remember a time when he has ever felt so light and carefree, but still he makes himself stay in just long enough to plant some more presents and whip together a quick but delicious breakfast.
All this he does while being as quiet as possible. Once done, he almost runs from his home. Everything outside is laden with a beautiful, almost mystical white. The world is quiet. There is no rush of traffic or roaring of waves. There is no dreadful alarm clock, the ticking of a croc, or the cry of a crow. There is no life around for miles and miles save those of the animals who also live way out here from the city of London and he and his beloved.
He lays in the snow. He dances in it, turning round and round to the music in his head. He throws back his head, opens his mouth, and lets a snowflake land on his tongue. He builds snowmen and draws a heart in the snow. All this he does, alone but not alone and in no fear of any danger befalling himself or the one person in all the world whom he loves.
Despite the creaks of his aging body, he has the heart of a child again. He has the freedom of a kid who doesn't care what anybody else thinks of what he does and of a man who knows there is no one to watch and judge him ever again. His spirit soars higher than the clouds from which the snow drifts downward onto him, and his heart flies even higher.
He hears the door when it opens and darts into hiding. He watches as his lover steps out onto the porch where they have spent many an afternoon rocking and watching the sun set together over the forest in this, their own land, their own home. James leans forward as Smee steps carefully down the small, wooden staircase leading to their porch. His smile grows as he notices that his life partner is indeed wearing the new pair of spectacles he left for him beside their bed and they seem to fit perfectly.
Smee looks around him in dawning wonder, and then he catches sight of the snowmen James has built. One is tall and not broad at all while the other is both shorter and more round. Smee steps closer, and then he spies the heart James drew in the snow before the two snowmen resembling them. As Smee draws closer for a better look, James darts around the snowmen and a few trees.
He waits until Smee is reading the message written to him in the large heart before coming up behind him. He tries to be silent, but it has been a long time since last he walked in snow. Indeed, it's been hundreds of years that they've been away, wasting time and wasting their lives together. Smee, however, pretends not to hear James' boots shifting through the snow until his husband lays his hands over his eyes.
"I'd tell you to guess who," James whispers beside Smee's ear, his beard tickling his lobe, "but there are only the two of us way out here."
Smee lets James turn him around and then beams up at him as he opens his eyes. His round, red nose is beaming brighter in the cold, and his pajamas actually fit him now although doing nothing to hide the chunkiness of his small body. Still, he is the most beautiful man James has ever seen. He caresses the left side of his face in a loving hand while his hook slides gently down his right. "Thank you, Smee. I should have listened to you long ago, my love."
Smee's brow furrows. "About what, Captain?" he asks, and for a change, James doesn't try to correct him. They are each other's Captains in this winter wonderland. There is no ship or crew or boy with which to contend, but they are truly the Captains of one another's hearts.
"About everything." James smiles somewhat wistfully. "But, most especially, about Neverland." They should've left there long ago. They had come easily enough by the means and could have done so long before he'd finally granted Smee's plea. The Fairies were always there, and they were only too eager to be rid of them back to the world from whence they had first come. The boy had known nothing about it, and Tinker Bell must have stayed true to her word because he still had not shown.
They had been here three years, and at long last, James was beginning to let go. He didn't miss Neverland or any of the headaches it had given them. He no longer even missed his ship most of the time, especially not on days like today. It never snowed on the high seas, after all, but here, it did snow. Here, he and his beloved Smee had their own private winter wonderland, and even when it wasn't Christmas, even when there wasn't snow on the ground, this private paradise was still all theirs.
His only lament, as he tells Smee now, is that he didn't listen to him sooner and didn't bring them home sooner. The battle against the boy was rather meaningless in the long term. Aye, it would've been nice to see the dratted boi crow his last on his hook, but the lad had far too much magic and youth on his side. James had been fighting a losing battle, but it had only been once they had left Neverland and settled here that he had at last come to see that he was wasting time.
Neverland did have immortality to offer, and here, they would grow. But there, every day he had gone against the boi, they had been lucky that one of them had not been killed. He had seen Peter slay many of his men over the years, and if the brat had ever gotten his sword into James' beloved Smee, he would've ended the both of them. He can see that now. He can see so much now, but what he wants to see the most is the same as it had been there: his beloved, cherished Smee smiling joyfully at him.
In the message, he had written words of love for his Smee. Each present inside their home, he had wrapped and bought with love and placed where Smee would find it on his way to follow him. Even the cooking of their simple breakfast had been done with love. Everything he did he did with love for Smee, and he has truly never felt better or happier.
"I know you love me, James," Smee is telling him now, and James' answering smile is broad and dazzling. What little sunlight there is reflects off of the snow and onto his big, white teeth.
"I'm just sorry," James replies honestly, embracing his husband, "that I didn't see it sooner."
"I'm not," Smee tells him, drawing back to look up into his handsome face.
"You're not?" puzzles James, his mustache twitching.
"No." Smee shakes his head. "As dangerous as Neverland was, we had far longer there than we do here."
James grows grave. He doesn't like thinking about the natural, short span of their human lives. If there's one thing he could still take from the boi, it would be his Immortality to share between the two of them, but he knows that isn't possible. "Do you . . . Do you want to go back?" he asks, his voice as quiet and soft as the winter wind sliding through the trees in the forest.
Smee doesn't even have to think about it. "No," he answers immediately, cupping James' face and caressing him tenderly. "We may not have aged there, but our lives were far from being Immortal, dear. That boi could've killed us at any time."
"Aye, and I thank God he didn't."
"As do I. We may not have as many years here as we would have there, but then, too, he might've killed us had we stayed one day longer. I am thankful for what we have here." His brilliant smile makes James' heart flutter. "I wouldn't have it any other way, unless we could've come home sooner."
For a moment, as he caresses Smee, James thinks about telling him that he is his home. It doesn't matter if they're here, in Neverland, or in London; if he has Smee beside him, he is home. But to do so might seem to belittle what this place has become to him. He won't do that, and he wants Smee to understand just how grateful he is for their life here. "I should've listened to you sooner, dearest," James answers instead, his mustache quivering, "and saved us sooner from the curse that was Pan."
"I couldn't see pass my anger at him. He took my hand; he threatened so many times to take your life. I wanted nothing more than to run my sword through the little brat! But I don't regret not killing him. If I had, we might never have made it home."
Smee smiles. "We would've found our way eventually," he tells him. "I wasn't about to let you go."
"Nor I you, my love." His hands run down his back; he pulls him closer against him in a tight hug. Through all their battles, those were the two things that had never changed: Smee had always been there for him, and James had never let him go.
"I don't know how many more years we have, Smee."
"Nor I, Captain. There's no way to know, I f-fear."
"It doesn't matter," James tells him, once more cupping his face. Smee doesn't tremble against the touch of his hook. He's the only one who doesn't fear him because of his hook, the only one James has ever loved, and the only one who's ever loved him. "What matters is that we spend every day together, my love, until that time and I get to show you all day, every day, and in every way how much I love you."
Smee beams up at him. "You already do that, Captain. Thank you for all the gifts, but the most special gift you could ever give me you already have with your love."
At one time, James would have made fun of any one speaking such smush, but here in the privacy of their very own wonderland, Smee's words warm his heart even more. "You've always been the only one who can do that," he confesses, kissing him.
"Do what?"
James grins cockily. "Reach my heart." It had been so cold and dead until Smee's gentle love had warmed it, and now, it feels more alive than ever before.
"My honor, C-Captain."
"No, Smee. It's mine: my honor to be loved by you, and my honor to spend every moment of however much longer we do have loving you in this wonderland your love has made for us." His mustache and the end of his black beard curl as he blushes at his own words. He's never been one to speak so romantically, but he speaks from the heart for his Smee, just as he now hears, in the quiet of the forest, two little drums beating out a pattern. "Do y'hear that?" he asks.
"What?" Smee puzzles.
"I do believe, Mister Smee, that our hearts are beating out a rhythm." His foot taps the snow. "A tango."
Smee grins. James has always loved to tango. They used to tango on the ship, and whenever one of his men would complain about their dance, James would shoot him dead. He's seen James kill many men over the years, but he's never once feared him. Most of those he has killed, also, have been because they had something ugly to say about the beauty of their love.
James bows before him now as snowflakes begin to drift down onto them once more. They light in his lover's hair and beard, and for a moment, Smee wants to reach out, grab them, touch them, perhaps even lick them where they linger on his James. But James has other motives, and Smee will always follow the Captain of his heart. "May I have this dance, Mister Smee?"
"Always, my Captain," he answers, taking his hand and hook without hesitation, "always." They dance in their winter wonderland and love each other happily ever after.
The End , rated PG-13/T
