Snow
Carmilla is the human equivalent of Grumpy Cat.
She's broody and disaffected, rebels against authority and all that jazz. Her wardrobe is 98% pitch black: punk t-shirts and leather pants and combat boots (to match her soul, of course). Small children and Twilight fanatics alike have mistaken her for a vampire, not that she's exactly eager to dispel those claims. Aloof is her middle name. Sarcasm was her first language.
But goddamn it if she doesn't secretly LOVE Christmas.
She can never let anyone know, of course.
Any respect her standoffishness has gained her over the years would be gone in an instant.
So she's internalized it.
Gets her Yuletide kicks via Pinterest (yet another thing no one will ever know about) and through helping Laura's family with their decorations.
Because the Hollises never, never skimp on holidays.
It's four in the morning and Laura is utterly dead to the world, head in Carmilla's lap in the back of Papa Hollis's pickup. She shifts slightly under the thin blanket and Carmilla threads her fingers absentmindedly through the waves of golden-blonde hair spilled across her dark jeans.
The stars out the window wink behind the stiff silhouettes of pines and firs as the truck winds through dark forest, high beams pushing the yawning night back a couple feet.
The sun is rising when they finally stop in a clearing, sky bleeding in reds and purples and yellows as Carmilla gently shakes Laura's shoulders.
"Wake up, creampuff. We're here."
The squeak of a yawn Laura lets out and the way she curls to the side before sitting up is painful in how familiar it is to Carmilla, and this pain is reduced none when Laura laces their fingers together and tugs her sleepily outside.
Laura keeps the blanket around her shoulders as they step out, whining sleepily about the cold. Her father is bustling about by the flatbed, taking out thick coils of rope and an axe, the crunch of pine needles under his feet accompanied only by a few birds.
Laura shivers and Carmilla tugs her closer, snaking one arm under the blanket and around her waist. "This is...legal....isn't it, Mr. Hollis?" She asks, incredulous.
He turns with a very unsure smile. "Sure it is! ...At least, I think so."
He claps gloved hands together. "Besides, what does it matter? There's no one here. You two start looking for a good tree."
They wander for a while in pleasant silence, blanket still draped over Laura's shoulders, hands still swinging between them. Most of the trees around are far too big to either fit in the house or onto the truck, and so they wander deeper in search of something manageable.
"This one!" Laura crows triumphantly, tugging Carmilla along with her towards it.
It's at least 8 feet tall, if not 9, towering over the both of them. She has to admit, it's a very nice tree, but she has no idea if they'll be able to get it back to the house in one piece.
All the same, she huffs out a relenting sigh and goes to fetch Laura's dad.
By the time they find the tree again, Laura sitting in a blanketed ball at the base, the sun is beginning to crest the treeline, which is a very bad sign considering this area is a national park.
Mr. Hollis glances dubiously up at the tree. "Um, Laura- "
"It'll fit in the living room." She says adamantly, holding out a tape measure like a badge.
"I measured it."
The skeptical look doesn't leave his face, but he starts attempting to cut it down with the axe, which is seeming a whole lot smaller now.
After several terse minutes, it finally topples back with a deafeningly loud crack and Carmilla is worried Laura's father is going to throw his back out hauling it to the truck, but somehow they manage to bring it back.
It takes all the rope Laura's father brought to secure it to the truck, and even with his best efforts, the top still lists horribly to the side and the scrape of needles and branches on metal isn't exactly the most pleasant sound.
But Laura still proclaims it perfect and so they pile back into the truck before a park ranger can find and possibly arrest them.
Because when Laura Hollis calls something perfect, no one, not her father nor her pining best friend, ever says otherwise.
It falls off before they get home.
Just before the town limit, the pickup takes a particularly sharp left turn and they hear two things- first, ropes snapping, and then a massive screech. Through the open window come the soft sounds of the tree hitting the sand as it bounces down the hill and towards the water.
Laura wakes with a start as her father sighs and looks for somewhere to park, blinking blearily up at Carmilla. "What was that?"
"Just the sound of hopes dying, cupcake. Go back to sleep."
Five minutes later, all three are standing around the tree, partially buried in wet sand as the tide slowly creeps further up the beach, trying to touch the needles and their shoes with cold fingers.
"Cupcake," Carmilla says slowly, prodding the tree with a boot, "I think this may be a sign."
"Nonsense!" Laura exclaims. "It's still together, isn't it?"
"The ropes are snapped and we don't have enough to tie it to the truck again," Laura's father supplies.
"We can carry it then!" Laura is refusing to be anything but optimistic. "Look, we're almost there!"
And that's how Carmilla ends up hauling a massive (illegally acquired) tree with Laura for a mile down the beach and back to the house while Laura's father takes the truck.
It's a really good thing she likes Christmas, she thinks, otherwise she wouldn't be doing this.
But then she glances over at Laura, determinedly trudging through the sand ahead of her, blanket still around her shoulders.
Yeah, she would.
By the time they reach the front door, Laura's nearly panting. She collapses on the couch once the tree is through the door and Carmilla lets her sleep while she begins to fiddle with snarls of multicolored lights. She lets an embarrassingly wide grin slide onto her face once she starts looping them around the tree, because she’s been waiting all year for this.
It's dark when she wakes Laura up (for the third time today) and the tree's very nearly complete, finally vertical once again. She admires her handiwork for a moment, the soft glow of two hundred or so lights dancing off slowly spinning ornaments and onto the floor, before tiptoeing to the couch.
“Laura,” she half-whispers, half-hisses, “wake up. I saved you the last decoration.”
She reverently takes out the glass star and hands it over to Laura, who’s gazing over at the tree, sleep-addled but still amazed. “Carm, it’s beautiful,” she murmurs.
“Thanks, creampuff, but it’s not done yet.” She takes Laura by the hand over to the tree. “One last piece.” She bends at the knees and gestures at her, wincing slightly because that trek back along the beach really had done a number. “Up you go; despite your best efforts, cupcake, I don’t think you’ll be able to get that onto something twice as tall as yourself.”
Laura’s still sleepy, which doesn’t make much sense considering how much she’s slept in the last twenty-four hours. Still, she clambers onto Carmilla’s back, grumbling something about being over five feet tall.
She reaches up over their heads and places the star delicately at the crown of the tree. When she adjusts it, it fits perfectly, completely bridging the miniscule space between ceiling and treetop, and Carmilla almost laughs. Instead she lets Laura down and lets her tug her up to her bedroom, lets her push her down onto the duvet and curl up against her like some cat.
“Merry Christmas, Carm,” Laura whispers, lips ghosting across her collarbone in the darkness.
Carmilla pulls her a bit closer and grins into her hair. “It’s not Christmas yet, cupcake.”
“Merry December twenty-something, then.”
“Merry December twenty-something to you, too.”
-
Christmas Eve in a beach town isn’t so bad, Carmilla thinks. The shops and palm trees lining the sidewalks are strewn with lights and there’s even a massive tree downtown. Laura’s dug up Santa hats for both of them to wear, and she giggles when Carmilla plucks some garland off a nearby lamp-post and winds it around her neck like a scarf.
They stop by the Wallflower to find Perry and LaFontaine up to their eyes in gingerbread, more and more emerging from the kitchen every minute. “We’re going to build a castle,” LaFontaine explains, a frosting bag in one hand and what appear to be gingerbread bricks in the other, “and then we’ll auction it off tomorrow.”
Perry walks by and sets down an industrial-sized bag full peppermints. “Sweetie, we’re closed tomorrow,” she says, one hand on their shoulder.
“Oh, right.” They shrug. “I guess we’ll just have to eat it then.”
Perry forces a few pieces of gingerbread into Laura’s hands on their way out the door. “Please, just take it. I’m worried about them.” She glances back at LaFontaine. “Dear, how much have you eaten?”
“A truly alarming quantity,” they yell back, voice muffled.
Perry sighs. “I’ll deal with….this. You two have fun!”
They stroll mindlessly for an hour or two, and Carmilla’s hopelessly reminded of the way they were, wandering the streets at night, fingers interlaced, full of comfortable silence and too-full glances.
Some slow Christmas song is playing as they reach the square for what is probably the fourth time. It’s something heartbreakingly lovely that Carmilla’s never heard before, making her heart hurt just a little as they stroll into the center of town.
Let our bells keep on ringing
Making angels in the snow
May the melody disarm us
When the cracks begin to show
Like the petals in our pockets
May we remember who we are
Unconditionally cared for
By those who share our broken hearts
Carmilla decides to do something fairly stupid and tugs her into the clearing next to the tree, pulling them flush together with the hand not holding hers. Laura squeaks like the human dormouse she is before curling one hand in the shoulder of Carmilla’s coat.
Carmilla presses the hand on the small of Laura’s back more firmly against her when she dips her backward before pulling her back up and spinning her suddenly as the song fades. “Having fun, cutie?” She murmurs, grinning at the tinge Laura’s cheeks have taken on. Her hands slide to Laura’s waist when she smiles back.
And then Laura glances up. “Look!”
Above their heads, tied to one of the infernal palm trees, is a small bundle of dark green leaves dotted with white berries. “Mistletoe,” she breathes, and Carmilla’s hands still at her waist.
There’s a beat of supercharged silence.
And then Carmilla Karnstein, broody, disaffected, hopelessly pining best-friend extraordinaire, finds herself kissing Laura Hollis in what is probably the biggest cliche of her life. All they’re missing is the snow. She doesn’t have the higher brain function to process this, though, because Laura’s hands are fisting in her lapels and her eyes flutter closed like butterfly’s wings against her cheeks. She tastes like gingerbread. She tastes like home.
And then her hand trails back along Carmilla’s arm to interlace their fingers again, and she’s tugging Carmilla along behind her homeward, Carmilla’s cheeks nearly matching her hat.
She really hopes she isn’t imagining the newfound bounce in Laura’s step.
The house is dark when Laura cracks open the door.
They ascend the stairs slowly, silently, and sneak back to Laura’s room. Carmilla catches a glimpse of the oven clock- 12:03.
She sits in a daze on Laura’s bed until Laura sidles in next to her and tugs her under the covers, the way they always end up, the way she wishes it always could be.
Laura’s nose is pressed at the base of her throat and it feels just like it always does, while at the same time so different- because less than an hour ago Laura kissed her and neither of them are saying anything. But she lets it go for now, because they're still here, curled up together in Laura's bed, and that's enough for now.
“Merry actual Christmas,” Laura says.
Carmilla turns her head to press a kiss to her temple.
“Merry actual Christmas, cupcake.”