Archive of Our Own ^beta

Javi’s got one foot out of the cab before he makes the discovery: his fingers slipped into his back pocket, stretching to reach the edges of a wallet that definitely isn’t there.

Shit.

The driver glances over his shoulder, impatience creeping into eyes made yellow by the buzzing phosphorescent lights. “C’mon, fella. This lane’s just for drop-offs. Can’t park here.”

Javi grimaces, fishing fast into every jacket pocket, rounding up a handful of loose bills to just cover the fare. No tip, though – the driver’s face turns sour.

“Merry Christmas to you, too, buddy.”

There’s barely time to get the door closed before the driver peels away from the curb, sending oily slush over the tops of Javi’s boots. He steps back quickly, narrowly making it onto the sidewalk before another cab slides into place in front of him  and a man and a woman clamber out. They’re fresh-faced even at this ungodly early hour, swinging matched carry-ons in mittened hands as they stroll to the door of the airport.

“You need a ride?” Their cab driver ducks low to peer at Javi through his cracked-open passenger window.

Another quick search finds last night’s change in the front pocket of these, his last-night’s jeans: a thin fold of bills but enough. He nods.

“Yeah. I do.”

---

He’d booked the ticket five months ago, after his father had finagled a promise from him that this year, finally, he’d come home for Christmas. It had been too long: he knew that. Too many holidays that weren’t, spent alone at his desk with only his bottom-drawer whiskey bottle as company. And it was going to be good trip – he’d fly home three days before Christmas, fly back right after New Year’s. A long visit – a real visit: more than enough to satisfy his father and placate the guilt that plucked at Javi’s heart about all the things he’d missed.

But then this fucking mess: called on the carpet in D.C. for some bureaucratic bullshit the week before Christmas, bullshit that ended up being nothing except a wrench in his plans. He’d spent nearly an hour calling airlines before finally paying way too much for this ticket tucked in the breast pocket of his jacket: a one-way, pre-dawn, Christmas Eve flight from D.C. to Laredo.

And it would have been fine, if he hadn’t had a whole twenty- four hours to kill in this swamp of a town.

Twenty-four goddamned hours: on hour twelve, he’d wandered into one sad fucking bar to drink one sad fucking whiskey and ponder what shitty motel he’d be sleeping in later. But then he saw her. A Santa hat was tipped jauntily on her head, the red felt the same color as the lipstick she was wearing, and the white fur trim of her green dress barely made it past her ass.

Javi might not love Christmas, but even Scrooge would’ve looked twice.

“Another one?” She’d pointed to his whiskey glass, her face illuminated by the necklace of twinkly lights swagged across her cleavage.

He’d said yes: to that one, and then to a third, and then finished the night chain-smoking at the end of the bar as he waited for her shift to end. He’d learned everything he needed to know: she said her name was Holly, delivered with a deadpan smirk that told him that was a lie. She wore the – her words – slutty Mrs. Claus outfit because it got her better tips. And most importantly, she’d like it very much if he would come home with her.

So he did – and it was a good night. He thinks about that now, here in the cab as he watches the first hint of sunrise start to pinken the winter sky. When she’d kissed him against the wall of her tiny basement apartment, her mouth had tasted like candy canes – sparkling peppermint, sugar-sweet. They’d made it to the couch first, and then later to the bed. She wasn’t shy and he liked that – liked how she told him just what she wanted, liked how she asked him what he wanted, too.

She’d still been asleep when he left an hour ago – snoring, buried beneath a heap of blankets that did little to combat the chill of her drafty bedroom. He’d whispered a goodbye from the door, quiet enough not to wake her. It didn’t matter: he’d never see her again.

Except here he is, delivered by the cab and relieved of the last bit of cash he had on him: standing at the bottom of the half-flight of stairs that lead to her front door. He knocks – hard, not caring if he startles her.

He pauses. Waits. Listens. Then pounds hard again, four more times.

“Jesus fucking Christ, what is it?” She’s yelling, her voice raspy and barely awake. He hears locks turning, the metallic clanks of bolts and slides, then the door opens a crack. He sees her eyes peering from the darkness, beneath the still-hooked chain. “Oh. You. Why are you back?”

“Did you steal my wallet?”

“What?” The one eyebrow he can see arches indignantly. “What did you just ask me?”

“My wallet.” He leans close to the narrow opening, nudging the toe of his boot into the gap. “Do you have my wallet?”

She huffs out a sigh, pressing bare toes one by one onto the top of his shoe. “Move your foot.”

He half-suspects she’s going to lock everything back up once he does, but instead he hears the drag of the chain-slide, and then the door swings wide. She’s wearing more clothes than he left her in: a faded gray t-shirt with a stretched-out-of-shape collar and a pair of navy blue men’s boxers that sag low on her hips.

She shivers in the blast of cold air that sweeps in the opened doorway, a frown flattening her lips. “Come in before I freeze to death.”

He stamps his boots on her tattered rug as he crosses the threshold, leaving dirty crusts of snow to melt into brown puddles. “My wallet.”

She rolls her eyes, grabbing a quilt from her couch and wrapping it around her shoulders as she stalks towards her bedroom. Her voice carries back to him, annoyed. “You left it. I didn’t steal it.”

The “asshole” is mostly a whisper, but still loud enough he knows he was meant to hear it.

She comes back, the leather bifold balanced on the palm of her hand like a cocktail tray. “I wouldn’t bother stealing a wallet for fifty-seven bucks.”

He lifts it from her hand and smirks. “How’d you know how much cash I had?”

She grins. “I looked at your ID. Couldn’t remember your name.”

“Mm.” He flicks through the cards, the bills – everything seems to be in place. “Seems like you were moaning it a lot last night.”

“I was moaning Harvey. You need to enunciate better.”

He glances at his watch and exhales hard. His plane leaves in two minutes. “Can I use your phone?”

She rolls her eyes, an over-the-top sigh huffing from her lips as she turns to walk away. “It’s in the kitchen.”

The kitchen isn’t a room so much as a carved-out corner of her apartment – a single counter flanked by a stove and a fridge, two cabinets above and two below. A small glass-topped table with two mismatched wooden chairs is centered on the square of linoleum that marks the footprint of this ‘room.’

“There.” She points to the avocado-green phone hanging on the wall as she slides into one of the chairs, pulling her knees up and wrapping the quilt tight around her.

“You have a phone book?”

“Drawer.”

He finds it, plus a pen and a notepad, and carries them to the table with the handset.

From each person he speaks with, he gets the same answer: We’re sorry, but it’s Christmas Eve. We’re sorry, but the flights are booked. We’re sorry. We’re sorry. We’re sorry. Merry Christmas.

“Goddamnit.” He scratches out the final airline from the list he’s made.

“No luck?”

“No luck.” He drops the pen on the table and rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Can I make a long-distance call? I’ll pay for it.”

Her face softens. She stands and takes the two steps to her kitchen counter, picking up the carafe from the coffeemaker and holding it up. “Go ahead. You drink coffee?”

Javi waits to dial until the sputtering coffeemaker comes to life; she slips from the room, padding down the hallway on bare feet.

Chucho sounds cheerfully awake when he answers, his booming hello ringing in Javi’s ears. Javi doesn’t mention the one-night-stand, the left-behind-wallet, the pretty-but-regrettable woman he can hear closing the door of her bedroom. He only says that he missed his flight, that he won’t be home today, that he might not be home at all.

His father masks his disappointment with a rueful chuckle. “It’s alright, son. Things happen.”

“I’m still trying to find a flight, Pops.” Javi paces the tiny kitchen. “May not make Christmas but I’m still trying.”

Another assurance. “It’s alright. Merry Christmas, son.”

By the time she’s back, he’s found the coffee mugs in her cabinet. He hands her one, thick steam curling over the red ceramic.

She takes it, her slender fingers wrapping around the chunky handle, her lips puckering to blow before taking a cautious sip.  She’s changed from her boxers and tee into a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt easily two sizes too large; the cuffs have slid down nearly to her knuckles. “Thanks.”

“It’s your coffee.”

“It is but—” she smiles, and it’s one of the smiles from last night that led him here the in first place, playful and sly – “as a waitress, nothing makes me happier than someone else waiting on me.”

He knows the smile he gives her back is weak – can tell because of the vaguely concerned crease that settles between her eyebrows. “Are they mad?”

“They?”

“Whoever you called.” She nods towards the phone. “Wherever you’re supposed to be.”

Javi thinks about that. Is Chucho ever mad? After all, Javi’s let him down so many times. He doubts his father expects otherwise anymore.

“Don’t think so.” He sips the coffee, wincing at how strong it is. “Jesus.”

Her smile ticks higher on her cheeks. “Like my coffee like I like my men.”

He can see she’s waiting, her tongue tucked into the space between her teeth as she readies herself for the punchline. He sighs. “And how’s that?”

“Hot.” She grins. “And bitter.”

“Mm.” He grunts, pushing the corners of his lips into a deep frown.

“That was a compliment.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Bitter?”

“Half a compliment.” She leans into the counter, mug cradled in her hands and nails tapping out a quick rhythm on the shiny glaze. “So no flights?”

He gulps down another mouthful of the coffee. “Nope. All booked.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“So, a solo Christmas.” Her shoulders lift and fall. “Not so bad.”

“Guess not.” He points to her phone. “Can I use that again? Gotta find a hotel.”

“A hotel?” Her eyebrows twitch together, confused. “Oh, shit, are you not from here?”

He smirks at her. “Pretty sure I told you that.”

“Sure you did, Harvey.” She returns the smirk. “Right before you snuck out this morning.”

“Didn’t sneak out. Just didn’t wake you up.”

Her smile shifts, softens, and she tilts her head, letting her eyes drift from his face to her front window. It barely sits above the sidewalk, and through the bars that cover it, he can see feet shuffling past, kicking their way through half-melted snow. “This is going to sound crazy.”

He waits – pours more coffee into his cup, then more into hers when she holds it out. He can see the argument she’s having with herself. Finally, she takes a deep breath.

“You can stay here.” She presses her lips together – a quick tap, letting them open with a pop. “If you want. Until you can get a flight? It’s just that…it’s almost Christmas. No one should be alone on Christmas.”

He considers this: looks around the little apartment, then meets her eyes. “You don’t have plans?”

“These are my plans.” She waves her hand towards the television, the fridge, the couch. “Frozen pizza, Christmas movies, and all the chocolate I can eat. If you’re interested, you’re welcome to stay.”

“Until I can get a flight.”

She smirks. “Obviously. And you have to sleep on the couch.”

He didn’t expect that. “You sure? What about last night?”

“Last night was a one-night-only thing.” She’s grinning, spinning away from him into the living room, where she flops onto her couch. “You weren’t supposed to come back.”

“Shouldn’t have stolen my wallet then.”

“Ha.” She stretches out on the cushions and picks up the TV remote from the battered steamer trunk that serves as her coffee table, flipping through channels.

“Can I ask a question?” He pats his pockets: finds his cigarettes, his lighter.

“No smoking in here.” She cuts her eyes towards him, pointing at the door. “Outside.”

He leaves the cigarette dangling in the corner of his mouth. “What about my question?”

She rolls onto her back, head tilted up against the armrest. “What’s the question?”

“Is your name really Holly?”

A smile flickers on her lips. “It is not.”

“What is it?”

The smile widens. “Noelle.”

He squints at her. “Try again.”

She laughs, stretching like a cat, her arms reaching over her head and her toes tapping against the opposite arm rest. “Joy.”

He shakes his head.

“Carol?” She bites the edge of her lip, eyes shifting to the side as she thinks. “Eve? Candy? Ivy? Oh, how about Gloria?”

“You don’t look like a Gloria.”

“Does it matter?”

He shrugs. “Guess not.”

“Good.” She rolls back onto her side, her gaze returning to the television. “Because this is my favorite part of this movie and you’re interrupting.”

---

Javi’s smoked his last four cigarettes on her stoop: one during each commercial break of White Christmas.

She’s in the kitchen when he comes back from the last one – bent over, peering into the refrigerator – and the memory of last night flashes through him as he admires her ass.

He clears his throat, not wanting to startle her. “There a store close?”

She jerks up at the sound of his voice anyway, narrowly missing nailing her head on the fridge. “On the corner.”

“Need cigarettes.” He angles his thumb over his shoulder. “You need anything?”

“Nope.” She’s holding a carton of orange juice in one hand and a glass in the other.

“I’ll be back.”

She nods, snagging a bag of pretzels from the counter she walks back to the couch. “I’ll be here.”

---

The windows of the corner store are flocked in fake snow, and inside the loudspeaker is playing Last Christmas at a volume that feels criminal. Javi wanders the aisles; he grabs shampoo and soap, gum and mints, a book of crosswords, a Louis L’Amour paperback. From a high shelf he selects a dusty bottle of whiskey, the neon-orange price tag on it peeling at the corners from age.

Once he’s traveled every aisle at least twice, he heads for the register. There’s a spectacled old man in a crooked Santa hat leaning onto his elbows on the counter, eyes fixed on the magazine open in front of him.  At the sound of Javi’s boots on the gritty linoleum, he looks up.

Javi points to the display behind the counter. “Marlboros.”

The man nods. “One pack?”

“Two. No, make that four.”

“Stocking stuffers?” The man chuckles softly to himself at his joke, oblivious to Javi’s frown. “Anything else?”

Javi almost says no – his mouth is shaping the word – but then he sees it, there at the end of the counter.

“That, too.”

---

He knocks on her door, tucking his chin low into the safety of his upturned collar. The air has grown sharper, spitting stinging flecks of sleet, and he stamps his feet against the cold.

“It was unlocked.” She waves him in quickly, slamming the door behind him against the gust of chill wind.

“That’s a fucking bad idea.”

“You’re right.” She nods sagely, sliding the locks into place. “What if some strange man came in?”

He carries the brown-paper sacks to the kitchen table, and she follows him, curiosity flashing in her eyes.

“Here.” He reaches into the first one: extracts the foot-tall Christmas tree from the cornerstore counter. Its tiny plastic ornaments clack hollowly against each other as he holds it out to her.

“What –” she tilts her head, amusement dimpling her cheeks – “is that?”

“It’s a Christmas tree.” He places it in the middle of the table, straightening the star on top with nudge of his pointer. “You didn’t have one.”

Her mouth pulls to the side, her teeth working into the edge of her lip. “I didn’t.”

“Just thought –” he clicks the button at the base, and the miniature string of lights on the tree begin to flash – “you might want one.”

The twinkling lights reflect on her face, flickering red and green and blue and yellow across her skin. A smile softens her expression; she finally meets his eyes. “Thanks.”

He nods curtly. “You’re welcome.”

“Well, since we’re being festive –” she turns away, yanking open the fridge – “want some? I was saving it for tomorrow.”

She holds up a bottle of eggnog, eyebrows lifted.

He shakes his head. “I don’t drink anything I can’t see through.”

Her laugh is quick, sparkling light. “Wow, what a weird rule. Have you at least tried eggnog?”

“No.”

“Well, today’s the day, Harv.” He watches her as she lifts onto her toes to reach high into her cabinet – extracts two pretty glasses, painted with green holly leaves and sprigs of red berries, the rims gilded in gold.

She squints as she pours, then caps the eggnog bottle with a satisfied smile.

“Is this the kind with alcohol?” He figures maybe he can manage a few sips if it is.

She wrinkles her nose. “Nope.”

He fishes his bottle of whiskey from the paper bag. “Can I add alcohol?”

She laughs, holding out the glass to him. “’Tis the fucking season, I guess.”

He adds a splash to his, then lifts his chin towards her glass. “Whiskey?”

She shakes her head. “Whiskey makes me do things I regret.”

He points to the glass of eggnog. “It’s about to make me do something I’ll regret.”

His deadpan joke makes her laugh again – he likes the way her laughter lowers her guard, how he can see glimpses of who she is behind her flippant exterior.

She lifts her glass, winking at him broadly over the rim. “Live a little, Javi.”

He returns her smile. “You said my name.”

Her eyes twinkle as she carries her drink back to the couch. “Oops.”

---

Miracle on 34^th Street is longer than he remembers, and between the whiskey and the quiet of her apartment and the early start to his morning, Javi keeps dozing off.

“Hey.” Her socked feet press into his thigh from the other end of the couch, toes wriggling assertively. “You’re snoring.”

He blinks fast, glancing at her. She’s curled on her side, a blanket pulled up underneath her chin, her gaze sliding to meet his as a commercial break begins on the television. “It’s okay. You had a late night.”

“So did you.” He wonders if it still counts as flirting once the one-night-stand is over. “Kept waking me up.”

She huffs out a quick exhale. “I was cold. Just using you for warmth.”

“You could turn up your heat.”

“I could.” Her feet are still against him, toes kneading softly into his leg. “But that costs money and you were free.”

“Mm.” He lets his hand drift from the couch cushion to his thigh, then lower, until her foot is beneath his palm. The wool of her sock is scratchy and warm, and he waits for her to pull away – she doesn’t.

“Be honest.” Her voice shifts, slips into something teasing and soft. “You really came back because you wanted to deck my halls again, didn’t you?”

He frowns at her, and she laughs.

“Come down my chimney?”

He gives her the most disappointed look he can manage – it’s hard, with how big her grin is.

“Play some reindeer games? Soak my fruitcake?” Her eyebrows are lifted high, eyes wide.

“How many of these do you have?”

“So many.”

He presses his thumb into the arch of her foot – rubs slow circles. Her eyes narrow, her tongue catching between her teeth.

“Where were you supposed to be?” Her question is hesitant, careful. “For Christmas?”

He keeps rubbing the sole of her foot. “Home.”

She pauses. “Where’s home?”

“Texas.”

“Family?”

“My father.” He lets his eyes drift away from hers, back to the television. “You didn’t have anywhere to be for Christmas?”

She wriggles deeper into her blanket, but keeps her feet pressed firmly against him. “Couldn’t make it work this year.”

He nods. “Understand that.”

“Shh.” He glances at her and she gives him a smile – a real one – as she snakes a finger out from beneath her blanket to point at the television. “It’s back on.”

---

Her oven is finicky. The timer doesn’t work and even though the pizza box says the temperature should be 425, she swears a degree over 350 will burn the whole place down.

“You need a new oven.”

“I live in a basement, Javi.” She grins, sliding the pizza off the oven rack and onto a cutting board with a dangerous-looking butcher knife. “Let me assure you that I cannot afford a new oven. But look: it’s perfect.”

He might disagree with ‘perfect’ but it’s edible. And he’s eaten many worse meals than this one, sitting next to her on this couch, swapping slices of her Canadian bacon for pieces of his pepperoni.

“Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.” She stacks her plate on top of his on the trunk, then stands. “I have dessert, too.”

There is a world in which he might tell her he did, too, before reaching for her, pulling her to him, kissing her. And he would like to do that – very much in fact. But the truth is she looks so pleased, rifling in the cabinet over her sink, pushing cans of soup and boxes of crackers to the side: he wants to let her share whatever has her looking like this.

“Here it is.” She carries the small box back, tipping out a foil-wrapped sphere into her hand. “Have you ever had a chocolate orange?”

He shakes his head and she beams, smacking the ball onto the trunk with a hard thump. “It’s so good.”

She settles next to him on the couch – nearly touching, close enough he can feel the warmth of her. Her careful fingers peel back the foil and he sees it: wedges of chocolate, each embossed with the juicy image of an orange slice.

“Here.” She lifts one of the segments, holding it to his mouth. “Try it.”

He sinks his teeth into it, snapping off the chocolate, holding her gaze. It’s sweet and rich, melting on his tongue. “Good.”

She nods, eyes bright. “It’s my favorite.”

She’s still holding it there in front of his mouth, so he takes another bite, his lips brushing the pinch of her fingers around it. “Might be my favorite, too.”

She smiles – pushes the final fragment of the slice between his lips and lets go. She scoots back on the couch, still close, tucking her feet beneath her as she nibbles on a segment of her own. “Know what movie’s next?”

He shrugs, leaning back and letting his shoulder rest against hers, citrus and chocolate still bright on his tongue. “Couldn’t guess.”

---

He can barely see the top of her head over the stack of blankets she’s carrying down the hall, the light from her bedroom door backlighting her in the darkness of the living room.

“These should be enough.” She looks apologetic, her mouth turned down. “It gets cold in here.”

He’s warm from the shower he just took, though his still-damp hair feels chilly against his neck. “I’ll turn your oven on if I get too cold.”

Amusement pushes the worry from her face. “I can see the headline now: ‘two die in Christmas Eve inferno.’”

“I’ll be fine.” He lifts one of the blankets and drapes it over the couch, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I appreciate you letting me stay.”

He hears take a deep breath. She holds it for a moment, then a soft exhale. “It was nice to have company today.”

He lifts his head to smile at her. “Glad you stole my wallet?”

She laughs, turning away and waving over her shoulder. “’Night, Javi.”

---

It’s early. Or late. He’s not sure. It’s still dark, but somehow not: the light coming in the window feels bright, almost glowing. His eyes still half-shut, he thinks it must be that unexpected light that woke him until he hears her voice.

“It’s snowing.” She’s standing in the middle of the room: her face tilted towards the window, illuminated by the thin, diffused light. Her arms are wrapped around her middle – she’s wearing only a t-shirt now, loose and soft against her body – and he sees her shiver.

He can hear the snow, now that he knows to listen – the muffled patter of flakes hitting the window. “White Christmas.”

“Yeah.” She smiles, her gaze slowly drifting from the window to the couch where he’s buried under the pile of blankets. Another shiver races through her. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Here.” He flips back the layers on top of him – the chilled air rushes beneath them, sending goosebumps chattering over his skin, but he holds them up anyway. He pats the space next to him on the cushions. “You’re gonna freeze.”

She’s there in a moment, pushing him onto his side to face the back of the couch, fitting her body into the length of his back, dragging the blankets back over them to their chins. Beneath the heavy covers, she slides her arm over his ribs, her cold hand resting over his heart. He presses it beneath his – feels her skin start to warm.

“Alice.” He can feel the heat of her breath against his shoulder as she whispers. “My name is Alice.”

He squeezes her hand and closes his eyes, listening to the silence of snow. “Merry Christmas, Alice.”

She shifts, gently resting her cheek against him, her breath rocking him slowly.  “Merry Christmas, Javi.”