Title: Christmas Morning in Increments of Five
Pairing: RrB/PpG
Rating: PG-13 for language and implied booty call
Parts: One of Three
Disclaimer: Love 'em, don't own 'em.
Summary: Alternate title might be "How to Have the Best Christmas Ever."
Notes: Ridiculously fluffy. I hope you enjoy your Christmas morning extra sweet, because you'll probably need the insulin tomorrow. My holiday fic back from 2008. It's even fluffier than I remembered. Un-beta'd.

Christmas Morning in Increments of Five


At Age Five

It's early Christmas morning, and the only word that can describe Butch's current emotion is giddy—obviously not one that jumps to mind when one thinks of the boy, but there's simply no other way to accurately convey the particular bounce in his step, the twist of his grin, the sparkle in his eye. The compact ball of ice cold snow he's holding rolls between his hands, and if he isn't careful his ammo will melt completely before he's had a chance to fire it.

The sudden sound of a door creaking open registers, and he ducks back behind the convenient snowman in their yard, picturing it all in his head as it's happening—the swing of that bright red door, the girls shouting their thanks to the Professor, the crunch of the snow underneath their feet as they dash outside in a frenzied bid to put their new toys to good use.

When it matters, Butch is an excellent listener. He picks out her step, more haphazard and frantic than her sisters, the sharp peal of laughter that escapes her throat and cuts into the air, and he shoots out from his hiding spot and fires his snowball with all his might at his target.

The laughter abruptly stops, and the girls stare at him open-mouthed and wide-eyed. He gives them a devious grin. It's the look that absolutely kills him, that furious shock in her green eyes, the bits of snow clinging to her face and hair, the redness in her cheeks from the sting of his strike and the winter morning chill.

It kills him, absolutely kills him. And it's better than any gift he could ever think to ask for.

"Merry Christmas, Buttercup!" he crows, taking off into the air, knowing she'll give chase, knowing the skies will erupt with her screams any second now, knowing that this day will end in a protracted flash of green and red and white all around, and he wouldn't have the holiday without her any other way.