Chapter 1
Contrary to what many assume, Peter loves Christmas. (What a crazy, unforeseen plot twist, amiright?)
Why? Well, it’s simple.
Although Christmas break meant that May had to work longer shifts, and the spontaneous increase in crime rate, it also meant he had an excuse to decorate and make goodies for everyone. If he did this on any other regular day, his friends would probably suspect he was trying to prank them. Which, to be fair, is something he may or may not have tried a few years back. Ahem, the ghost pepper incident…
But yesterday, May promised to help him make fruit cake for a few of his friends, but she got roped into taking over shifts for a few of her colleagues. So she wasn’t getting back until late morning. Mainly because there were a lot of icy-road related accidents. Which, in hindsight, is pretty reasonable considering no one understood what a speed limit was, especially during the Christmas rush.
So, if he can’t bake, he’ll decorate. Of course he’ll have to find somewhere else besides their apartment because it’s already done. He decorated it with May a month or two ago. It’s never too early for Christmas… unless it’s September (Costco can go suck a candy cane).
Anyways, Peter decided to go mess around with his favorite bartender.
Weasel.
Can you really blame him?
The dude’s practically asking to be bothered. Why work at a bar if you don’t want to be bothered? Especially the bar that Peter frequents the most. Not to drink, of course, but to just observe people. It’s funny when people do things they shouldn’t when they think nobody’s watching, but what they don’t know is that Peter is always watching.
Henceforth, here Peter is now, sitting on top of the bar counter that his soon-to-be victim works at, much to Weasel’s distaste.
Weasel chucked the red wine-stained rag he held aside and firmly planted both of his hands on the counter next to Peter. “What’s it now, kid?”
“Huh?” Peter batted his eyelashes innocently. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, right. And I’m the fu- freaking tooth fairy.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes in feigned exasperation.
Peter can’t help but snort at the thought of Weasel, Weasel , replacing the teeth under children’s pillows with dimes and quarters. If anything, he’d pull the rest of them out himself.
“About that-”
“Nope! I don’t want to hear it.”
“Aww, but you’d look so nice in a pink tutu with a little crown and everything.”
Weasel puts one hand over his heart, “Wow, thanks. I’m flattered, truly.” he deadpans.
“Anytime!” Peter chirps, giving him the most genuine smile he can muster.
“Now, why are you really here?” Weasel asks, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. He’s got a bad feeling about this. Clearly, Peter has some ulterior motive behind this… damn those ghost peppers. It’s always the innocent looking ones.
“Uh-“
“And don’t give me any of that ‘I missed you’ bull crap. We both know that’s not true.”
Peter puts his hands up in surrender, “Alright, alright. You’ve caught me red-handed.”
“So. What is it?”
“Could I, perhaps, add a little bit,” Peter pinched his fingers, “of Christmas spirit to this place?”
Weasel gives him his most ‘ what the fuck are you on’ glare that Peter’s ever seen from him all week.
He shakes his head. “No thank you. It has enough ‘spirit’ as it is.”
“But there’s literally nothing here, though? It’s sad. Depressing. Desolate-“ Peter waves his hands around in emphasis, almost smacking the bartender in the face, to which he gets a look of disapproval in response.
“Alright, knock it off. It’s not that bad.”
Peter gives him the most deadpan stare he can muster. “There’s just a single undecorated tree in the corner. I’d say that’s pretty sad.”
“Yeah, yeah. Anything more would scare away half of our customers.”
“But it’d attract new ones-“
Weasel cuts him off quickly, “Not the right kind.” he shudders, momentarily shaking his head.
Peter is admittedly a little concerned. He furrows his brows in confusion, “What kind are you thinking of?”
“Your kind. Christmas hippies, y’know.” He says, wrinkling his nose, and Peter makes an offended noise. Although, if there was a very, very slight upturn at the corner of his mouth as he said this, hinting at a grin, no one noticed.
“Hey! I am a delight to be around, thank you very much.” The boy scoffs dramatically.
“Sure. Whatever you say, kid.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the sentiment.” Peter mocks as he hands the bartender the empty beer glass that someone had just placed next to him on their way out.
Weasel grabs the discarded rag and starts cleaning the amber-liquid coated glass, and for a few seconds, they sit in a comfortable silence as Peter watches him scrub the inside.
Then, “Alright, fine. You can add a little ‘Christmas Spirit’ to the bar.” He sighs.
“Seriously?” Peter perks up at this, a smile creeping onto his features. “Oh, thank you!”
Weasel places the glass back in the cabinet and shakes his rag at him. “But when I say little I mean minuscule.” he says, pointedly glaring daggers at him.
Peter jumps off the counter, hastily making his way to the door to begin gathering materials. “Uhuh I got it. Thanks!” he beamed, jokingly saluting before rushing out of the old oak door, almost yanking it off its hinges in the process— he’s excited, okay?
Weasel huffed fondly and gave a quick wave goodbye, but Peter had already left. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Well, shit. I’ve probably screwed myself over.”
Unbeknownst to Weasel, Peter and his enhanced hearing, overheard this. And he can, in fact, confirm that Weasel is right. He is screwed.