Chapter Text
There’s a certain kind of magic in the air around Christmas.
Trish had known this her entire life, of course. As a child she could feel it when her mother would bundle her up in her warmest sweaters and hold her close to her chest, singing softly of reindeer and talking snowmen and fat, jolly old men in red suits delivering presents. She could smell the magic in the kitchen as her mother produced a batch of cinnamon cookies from the oven, and she could hear it in the joyous cries of the other children as they ran out of the school yard on the final day before winter break.
Even as Trish grew older, and learned the truths behind the holiday, the magic was still there. It wasn’t actual magic, of course. She was 15 now, and far too old to believe in fairytales. It was more a warm feeling, something sweet and calming and happy that the season would bring. Having two weeks off school where Trish could curl up with her mother in front of the fire and gorge herself on hot cocoa may have contributed to this idea of magic.
Christmases were simple, with just the two of them, but perfect all the same.
They had a routine, their own personal traditions. Big family gatherings were overrated. Trish and her mother didn’t need anyone besides each other.
So why did this year have to be different?
Trish tried to hold in her groan as she heard heavy footsteps thump down the hall. Her mother, she knew, was in the kitchen beginning prep for their Christmas eve dinner, which meant that this had to be…
“Doppio. Are you seriously still in your pajamas?”
The boy was standing in the living room entrance way, face still groggy from sleep. Trish didn’t bother to hide her self-satisfied grin at the way his hair was tangled into the biggest rat’s nest she had ever seen. She had dyed her hair pink first and was certain he had only done so afterwards to be a little shit and copy her. With luck it would be so knotted he would have to shave it all off.
He rolled his eyes. “It’s Christmas eve, I don’t have to get dressed today.”
“It’s past noon,” Trish pointed out, “you’re lazy.” She turned back to the Christmas tree she had been working on before his arrival. “How are you supposed to take over your dad’s company if you can’t even bother to get dressed in the morning?”
Trish scoffed as he threw himself down onto the sofa. If he falls asleep again…
“He’s your dad too, you know,” Doppio said, “and I’m getting that company no matter what because my only competition is you and Dad doesn’t give a shit about you and your mom.”
“I genuinely wish that were true, because then I wouldn’t be spending Christmas with you assholes.” Trish shot back. Doppio just grinned at her from his spot on the couch, and Trish rolled her eyes. Tomorrow was Christmas, and she only had to put up with him until then. Still…
“Clearly, he doesn’t give a shit about you either, or he wouldn’t have abandoned you here for so long…” She muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. She turned her back to him, fully facing the tree as she hung another shiny bauble from one of the branches and pretended to not hear his indignant spluttering.
“He’s an important guy! He’s busy at work, that’s why he hasn’t come yet! He’ll be here tonight, he called me yesterday to promise!”
Trish only hummed in response, too busy scanning the tree for an empty spot to hang another ornament. She heard him huff and fall back down onto the sofa behind her, and thankfully he was silent for the next while, tapping away on his phone while Trish continued her decorating. The tree was nearly done, but she still had to set up the stockings and window stickers and nativity… normally she would have finished all of this by now, but for whatever reason her stupid Dad decided they should be a family for Christmas this year and dropped his stupid son on their doorstep with the promise that he would be back for dinner after he picked up a few things from his office.
That had been nearly a week ago.
Every night since, Doppio’s cell would ring with their dad on the other end, telling him that he’s caught up again, but he promises he’ll make it back tomorrow. Doppio would quietly sulk, and Trish would be forced to deal with his complaining for another day.
She should feel bad for him, but frankly she wanted nothing to do with him in the first place. Still, he was here, so he may as well be useful.
“Stop being a bum and go set up the nativity.” Trish called out. She didn’t turn around, but she could hear his groan and a heavy thump to the floor where he presumably rolled off the couch.
“You people are fucking slave drivers” he grumbled, but Trish could hear the shuffle of him unpacking the nativity box, so she chose to ignore him.
There was only one ornament left in her Christmas tree box- a glass ballerina. It had been a gift from Trish’s grandmother, her last Christmas alive, nearly a decade ago. Trish had long since dropped out of ballet classes, but the little glass girl was still special. She always got a spot of honour on the tree, right up front where everyone could see her. She was such a beautiful, delicate thing, hand painted and perfectly poised mid-pirouette.
Trish stood back to admire her work- the tree looked perfect, as per usual. She had something of a knack for decorating, so her mother always let her have the reins. Trish couldn’t help but smile as she gazed at the tree.
Maybe this year wasn’t average, but she could still revel in the Christmas spirit and enjoy the season for what it was.
Her reverie was shattered with Doppio’s dumb giggles behind her.
Trish turned, not bothering to hide her scowl as she stomped towards the boy. He had a ceramic figure in each hand, presumably setting up the nativity as she had asked, but there was no way Trish was going to trust him that easily. Doppio immediately groaned as Trish sidled up beside him.
“Butt out, I’m making room for the wise men,” he said, knocking her shoulder with his own to push her out of the way. Trish held her ground.
“I’m just checking your work.”
“I’m not a child, I know what a nativity looks like.”
“Well, you act like one, so I just have to be sure.”
Most of it seemed in place. Painted ceramic figures positioned together in a little wooden stable. Angels and shepherds and barn animals and Mary and Joseph and-
“Where’s the baby?”
Doppio hummed. “Right there,” he said, and pointed to the small ceramic donkey balancing precariously on the wooden manger.
“That’s a donkey you ass,” Trish said, digging through the box that all the figures had been stored in. Baby Jesus was nowhere to be found. “Seriously, where is it?”
Doppio shrugged. “Dunno, but do we really need him? The donkey’s pretty cute.”
“Well, it’s a scene about the birth of Jesus, so yeah, we kinda need the main character of the nativity.”
Doppio turned back to the nativity, delicately scratching the little donkey on the top of its head. “Aww, don’t pay attention to her,” he cooed, “you’re just as important as that dumb baby.”
Trish stopped her search to throw the empty box at him. It bounced harmlessly off his chest, but he still scoffed in fake insult. “You’re impossible!” She said.
He opened his mouth with a rebuttal but was quickly interrupted by Trish’s mother shouting for the kids to come get their lunch. And, well. The pull of homemade soup was just the teensiest bit stronger than the pull of fighting with Doppio for the billionth time that week.
***
They never did end up finding baby Jesus. After lunch, Trish’s mother helped in the search, and Doppio insisted that he hadn’t hidden it and it simply hadn’t been in the box with the other figures. And so, the donkey got to stay.
Trish felt like it was mocking her from its place up on the mantle, like it’s stupid painted-on donkey eyes were turned up in a shit eating grin and saying, “everything is different this year and you can’t do anything about it.”
Christmas Eve night was usually her favourite, and sure, the elements of it were all still there. She was huddled up beside the fireplace, her favourite fluffy blanket draped around her shoulders, a comfort book from her childhood in her hands and a hot mug of mama’s famous cocoa perched on the brick beside her. Her mother was in the rocking chair across from her, with a book and blanket and mug of cocoa of her own, as they always did on Christmas Eve. But this time, there was Doppio, breaking the atmosphere of turning pages and the crackling fire with the tap tap tap of his fingers on his phone.
This time, there was a donkey in the manger.
And Trish tried to ignore him, she really did, because her mother was in the room and boy did she look tired. But then his phone started ringing, and Trish knew what was coming, because the same thing had happened the past five nights. Still, she stuck her nose in her book and pretended not to listen as he picked up.
(“Hi Dad” ... “Yeah everything’s fine here” ... “You missed dinner” ... “But it’s Christmas eve, you can’t-” ... “Yeah, I understand that, but-” ... “You would have to be early, cause the morning is what’s important” ... “Okay” ... “Okay, yeah, I’ll let her know” ... “Love you too” ... “Bye, Dad”)
Trish’s mom looked up when he set his phone down, and Trish could see the barely concealed pity in her eyes when she addressed him. “Was that your father, dear?”
“Yeah,” he said. He didn’t look up from his phone. “He’s caught up again, he can’t make it tonight. He’ll be here in the morning.”
Don’t feel bad for him, don’t feel bad for him…
It was hard not to, though, when he wouldn’t look up from his phone (which he hadn’t even turned back on, just staring down into the black screen) and a heavy silence permeated the room. Trish was used to her dad bailing on her, and honestly at this point in her life she didn’t care much if she ever saw him again or not. Doppio was different though, and she knew that. She tried to imagine how it would feel if her mom dropped her off at a different family's house and then abandoned her there over Christmas. She found she didn’t much like this hypothetical.
Her mother broke the heavy silence, pulling herself up out of the rocker and setting her mug down on the coffee table. “Stay here, kids, I’ll be right back,” she assured as she left the room.
Trish still wasn’t sure what to say in this situation, and Doppio still hadn’t looked up from his empty phone, but luckily her mother wasn’t gone for long. She re-entered the room carrying two wrapped gift boxes, and Trish felt her heart rate pick up just looking at them. Of course! Her Christmas Eve present.
“Doppio,” Trish’s mother said, placing the two boxes down on the coffee table. The boy finally looked up. Trish tried to ignore how his eyes were looking a little red. “Trish and I have our own little tradition, where I always pick out one present for her to open on Christmas Eve. I figured that since you’re here with us this year, it would only be fair for you to open one as well.” She pushed the larger of the two boxes towards him.
Trish was too transfixed by her own gift-wrapped box to pay much attention to Doppio opening his own, though. It was only as wide as her hand was long, but at least a foot if not more in length, wrapped in gorgeous pink and silver gift paper with a massive bow on the top. Doppio’s excited gasp finally broke her out of her trance.
“The bodyguard squad! I’ve been looking for these, but they’re so hard to find!” Trish looked up to check out the box he was holding up. A clear plastic thing, containing five toy soldiers, all painted up in bright colours, with Passione painted on the top. On the cardboard backing, it looked like each of the little toys had a cheesy name and pre-written back story. Trish could make out “The Captain” before Doppio dropped the box down onto his lap. “Thank you, Ms. Una! This almost completes my set!”
Trish’s mom smiled, seemingly relieved she had managed to raise the boy’s spirits. “Well, I had your fathers help, but you’re welcome.”
Trish pulled herself up, leaning on the coffee table as she inspected the box further. “Aren’t you, like, 20?” She asked. “You’re too old to be getting this excited over dolls.”
“They’re collectables,” Doppio shot back, “not dolls. There’s a bunch of them, and they all come in these personalized squads with backstories and-” he stopped suddenly, looking down at Trish’s unamused expression. “Actually, you don’t care, so I’m not gonna bother telling you.”
“The Pilot doesn’t have a plane,” she commented, pointing to one of the soldiers with “The Pilot” emblazoned on the cardboard by his head.
“You can get different models of planes for him!” Doppio said. He looked like he wanted to argue some more but stopped himself. “But I already said I wasn’t gonna talk to you about it!”
Trish just grinned and turned her attention back to her own gift. The wrapping was beautiful, and she could feel the excitement flowing through her body as she ripped the paper off. Inside was a long wooden box, painted simply with a golden trim along the edges. And lifting the lid and peering inside she saw…
A nutcracker. Trish couldn’t help the breathy oh that escaped her as she looked at him. He was, frankly, beautiful. As beautiful as a nutcracker could be. Trish pulled him out of the box to inspect him further. He was small- he probably wasn’t functional as a nutcracker, even if his wooden jaw opened and closed when she pulled his arm. At its widest, Trish could probably fit no more than an almond in his mouth, but it wasn’t as if she was planning on using him as an actual nutcracker anyways. He was far too pretty for that.
The painting could only be described as delicate, perfect, tiny brush strokes showing the twist of his golden blonde hair into a braided bun at the nape of his neck. Dapples of different shades of pink were overlaid on top of each other to give his soldier’s suit the impression of real fabric, with little blue ladybugs painted so precisely it looked like actual embroidery through the wood. And his eyes. A dazzling green crafted so beautifully they almost looked real. His cheeks and nose were dusted pink, as if he had just been out in the cold.
“He’s amazing,” Trish said. Her mother smiled.
“He’s hand painted by that artist you always stop to admire at the downtown craft fair,” she said. “One-of-a-kind, there’s no others like him.”
Trish couldn’t take her eyes off him. Of course, he was hand-painted, with the number of tiny details. A lot of love went into this little wooden nutcracker, and Trish swore she could feel it, a warmth flowing through him and into her hands. That Christmas magic.
“Your nutcracker is pink.” Doppio said.
Trish scoffed. “Congratulations, dipshit, you know your colours.” She pointedly ignored her mother’s narrowed eyes at the comment. Doppio just shrugged.
“Kind of fruity for a nutcracker to be pink,” he said. Trish glared at him.
“Says you!”
“Can we not?” Her mother interjected before Doppio could get in a response. “It’s Christmas Eve, and we’re family. Please try to get along, just for the next 24 hours?”
Trish felt her face heat up as well as she grumbled out a halfhearted apology, and Doppio at least had the decency to look somewhat ashamed as he left the room, saying something about putting his soldiers away in his suitcase to keep them safe. Trish looked back down to her nutcracker. The firelight glinted off his painted eyes, bathing him in a soft orange glow.
“Don’t worry about Doppio,” she whispered to him, “he’s a shit head, but I know you’ll protect me.”
Trish felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “Where are you going to put him, dear?”
She thought a moment, before placing him down in the center of the coffee table, poised with his sword arm extended. “Right here,” she said, “so he can protect us from intruders.”
Her mother hummed. “I feel safer already,” she said. She glanced at the clock on the wall, before wrapping her arms around Trish’s shoulders in a hug. “You should get to your room too, sweetheart,” she said, “It’s getting late.”
Trish hugged her mom back and took one last glance back at her little nutcracker standing guard on the coffee table. It felt, even if just for a moment, that maybe this Christmas would be okay after all.