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It Came Upon A Midnight Clear
| Rating: |
PG |
| Past Life:
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WW I Christmas 1918 |
| Warnings: |
No sex!!! *faints* |
| Notes: |
I do have something else started,
but it’s already crashed and burned as far as the challenge goes (because
it’s wayyyyyyyyy too long) so I thought I’d try again, and this is the
result. I have a bit of a love affair with WWI and WWII stories, so this
worked very well for me. I managed to use all the key words, be spot on with
the word count, make it a Past Life, get in a first kiss, AND use a carol
for the title. That glass dildo award is SO mine *wiggles happily*!!!!!!
|
| Word Count: |
1500 - go me. |
Everything’s ready.
There’s holly and ivy spilling over their mantle, and
candles glowing in their hearth. The fire’s lit. There are chestnuts stacked
high that they’ll probably never get around to roasting, and their wassailing
bowl – a beautiful silver basin handed down through generations of their family,
is waiting to be filled to the brim with warm spiced wine. They’re a little
early for that tradition, being a New Year one as it is, but they don’t care
about that. To drink and be well has more meaning this year than any other.
There’s a twinkling star on top of their Christmas tree, and they’ve built a
snowman out in their yard – dressing it in old clothes found in the bottom of
their drawers.
And at midnight… at midnight, he’ll come.
I glance at their clock and watch as the hand clicks on
another minute.
Nearly time.
So nearly time.
Everyone I know is at church. Singing and celebrating and
thanking God and all His angels for the safe return of the boys from the front…
but I’m not there. I wouldn’t go. Not because I have nothing to be thankful for,
but because if I’m there, I can’t be here… and he’ll come at midnight. I know he
will, and for those few blessed moments, we’ll be alone. Just the two of us. Me
opening his family’s door and looking at his battle-weary face. Him – with eyes
so, so blue, gazing back at me.
The snow has been falling for days, but it’s clear outside
now. No clouds in the sky – just the large, white moon and millions of stars.
The roads are treacherous. Icy and slippery, but he’ll get here because there’s
nowhere else he wants to be.
We’ve written more words to each other in the last four
years than we’ve spoken to each other in the rest of our lives… and if I didn’t
care a damn for him when he left, then I certainly care for him now. Then, he
was just a boy. A boy of twenty who went out to fight. Now… now he’s a man. A
man who will be scarred by horrors I can’t possibly imagine, even though I have
it all written down. All that he’s seen. All that he’s done. I know when he
killed his first man. I know when he killed his last. I know when his trench was
flooded and I know how his feet hurt. I know about the friends who were killed
beside him. I know how much he wished to join them at times. I know about the
rats and the stench and the longing for home. I know about praying and about
wanting and about things I never even thought of before.
I look at myself in the mirror hanging over their mantle,
and my heart sinks a little because I don’t know how he remembers me. My hair
has turned white since he’s been gone. I look like an old man now, even if
that’s not really the case.
And their clock ticks a moment closer.
I move across to their table and fiddle with the things on
it - shifting their crystal goblets into a straight line and hoping and praying
that the peace of this moment isn’t shattered too soon by their early return
from church. I want it to be just us. Just the two of us, even if it’s only for
a mere moment of time. I want to look into his eyes. Want to see him looking
back.
Just at me.
And the chimes start. A deep, melodious sound as they ring
out the hour. Ring out Christmas. Ring out hope.
One, two, three.
I glance at their window – heavy drapes left open slightly
so that a chink of light can spill out onto the path.
Four, five, six.
My heart thuds in my chest and I look at myself again. Try
to see what he’ll see, and hate that what he’ll see is probably not what he is
expecting.
Seven, eight, nine.
And the knock on their door is loud and sure, and my
stomach seizes for a moment before a flood of emotion sends the hairs on my neck
rising.
Ten, eleven, twelve.
My feet move, and I don’t know how. All I know is that my
hand is on their doorknob and slowly… slowly… I see him.
I want to move. To say something. His great coat is
covered in snow. His battered cap is pulled low on his head. He has gloves on
and a scarf, and his boots are wet and filthy. I should invite him in – into his
own house. Should pull him into the warmth of the room and take his coat from
him and find him a sweater to change into and wine to drink, but all either of
us can manage to do is be utterly silent.
He’s changed. I can see that. He has lines now. His skin
is pallid. I know he’ll need caring for, and I know there are plenty that will
flock around to do it. I know that any moment I’ll be pushed aside as the flood
of his family returns from church and hugs and kisses him and fills the air
around us with noise. I know I won’t be wanted. Why would I be? I’m just Jack
from the farm. Jack, who offered to watch their house. A working man. And how I
feel… what I want… it can never be spoken out loud.
His tips his head to one side and clears his throat and
then reaches up, pulling the cap from his head. His hair is longer than I
remember it being, but his eyes… his eyes are exactly the way I’ve dreamed.
“Mistletoe?” he asks, and I blink at him.
“What?” I look sideways at their door and understanding
hits me. “Oh!” I’d forgotten about his mother hanging it up and laughing about
what a wonderful Christmas it was now that we knew he was safe and coming home
to us. “Yeah,” I grate out. “Mistletoe.”
He nods and reaches out and plucks a sprig of it, twirling
it in his long fingers as he purses his lips. “Can I come in?” he murmurs.
“Oh! God! Yeah. Yeah,” I answer and the faint sound of
singing fills the air. Singing from the church. Their last carol. The one that
will set them all free to run home and see if he’s here yet.
I take a step backwards and he follows me inside, closing
the door behind him and shutting us away from the world.
“You waited for me,” he says quietly.
“I said I would.”
“And everyone else…?”
“Church. Being thankful that… that you’re here.”
“You’re not thankful?” His voice is deep and wonderful,
and I can hear the gentle play of laughter bubbling in it.
“I said I’d be here,” I remind him, and he nods and looks
down at the pale green sprig in his hand.
“I’m glad,” he says finally and his eyes come back to
mine. Asking. Wanting.
I lick my lips and gaze at him, and what I want is a huge
weight in my chest. Pressing down on me. Suffocating me. I know how he feels.
He’s told me. Poured it out in his letters. And I’ve answered him. Told him how
I miss him and need him and pray for him to be safe. And I’ve signed myself
Jess, because if anyone read our letters… if anyone guessed… if anyone knew…
“Jack…” he breathes simply, and I close my eyes because
the emotion is overwhelming.
“They’ll be here in two minutes,” I warn him roughly, and
he nods and fiddles and seems undecided, and I don’t know what to do, so I do
nothing… and the time ticks on.
Ticks on.
Ticks on.
And then his face clears and he makes his decision. Takes
my heart in his hands.
“I love you,” he murmurs, and it’s just as I’ve heard it
in his letters. Just as I’ve imagined him saying it.
“I love you, too,” I assure him, and I mean it. I mean it
with every breath in my body. “We don’t have long,” I remind him.
“Long enough,” he answers me and moves nearer.
My arms are ready for him. They’ve been ready for a long
time, and I draw him to me, easing him close and gazing into his eyes for an
endless moment. And then his lips are on mine. Brushing. Teasing. Soft,
feather-light touches, and then deeper. Harder. Our mouths opening. Our tongues
meeting. Tentatively. Desperately. His fingers clutch at my shirt and I crush
him against me, showing him how much I love him and want him and need him. And
when the door opens and his family come spilling into their hallway, his eyes
are shining and his hair is mussed and I know everything’s ready for the rest of
our lives.
contact pepe:
pepe@pepesplace.co.uk
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