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“I feel bad that I don’t have any traditions to share with him.”
Rafael turns to her from where he’s been watching Noah play with the new Lego set he’d brought him.
(“You know Christmas is in literally three days, right?”
He’d shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to buy him some more toys then.”)
“You never did anything with your mom?”
“Holidays weren’t really her thing. There were usually some presents when I was younger, but not a lot beyond that. And since drinking heavily is something I’m actively trying to avoid passing on to him, there’s not a lot from my childhood holidays I can give him.”
Rafael shifts to lean next to her against the counter, crossing his arms across his chest.
“You could always make something up. Hey!” he says, laughing and squirming away from her when she digs her elbow into his side.
“That’s not really how traditions work, Barba.” She reaches out and snags the hem of his shirt with the tips of her fingers, tugging him closer again so she can press her shoulder against his.
“It’s how traditions start. They don’t actually spring fully formed out of the ether, as much as some people would like you to think they do. You and Noah are what’s important, so there’s nothing wrong with you making your own traditions that are about the two of you. And if you can’t come up with anything, you can share some of mine.”
“You’ve got enough Christmas traditions that you can give some away?”
“I’ve certainly got enough to share some of them in the name of a worthy cause.”
“I think you’re just trying to get yourself invited to Christmas Eve dinner.”
“Not now that I know you don’t have any decent traditions.” He grins as she laughs. “I’d love to join you guys.”
“You don’t have anywhere else to be?”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, Liv.”
There’s nothing she can say in response to that that’ll feel like enough, so she just leans more heavily into his side until he lifts one arm to wrap it around her shoulders.
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Dinner had been good, although Noah had done most of the talking. He’d recounted his entire Christmas list for Rafael, even though he’d heard it before several times, detailing exactly why he wants each item. Rafael had listened raptly the entire time, grinning, nodding in all the right spots, and shooting her twinkly-eyed looks every time Noah looked away to gather his thoughts. She feels ridiculous describing them that way, even just in her own head, but there’s really no other word that fits.
Olivia doesn’t know why she’s so nervous. She knows that Rafael won’t judge her, no matter what happens, and since there’s marshmallows involved, she doubts Noah will be wholly disappointed. And besides, if it’s awkward or doesn’t feel like enough, they don’t need to do it again next year and she’ll have a full year to think of something else.
Rafael is keeping Noah distracted while she sets up, helping him string up some extra lights. She’s a little worried there’s enough to result in a serious bump to her power bill for the month, but Noah’s giggles and delighted exclamations every time he lights up another strand make it more than worth it. Once everything is ready, she leans against the wall for a few minutes, watching her son wrap a string of lights around Rafael’s shoulders.
“Alright, boys, think you can tear yourselves away to help me?”
“What are we doing, Momma?”
“We’re going to make apple cider, sweet boy. We’ll start it tonight and have some, and then we’ll put it in the crockpot overnight so it’ll be really good when we have it while we open our presents tomorrow morning. And to go with it,” she says, turning to grab the bag of marshmallows and the chocolate off the counter.
Noah’s eyes light up. “S’mores?”
“Yes, but first I need you to help me with the apple cider.”
She helps him measure out the correct portions of cloves and allspice, and ties up the cheesecloth around them so that they can put it in the giant pot of cider she already has warming on the stove. Rafael brings over a chair so that Noah can stand on it to add the cinnamon sticks and stir, and then he takes over with a laugh when he casts a plaintive look towards the marshmallows sitting next to the microwave.
Olivia helps him “roast” a couple marshmallows and then gets him set up at the coffee table with his s’mores as Rafael brings over three mugs of cider. He settles next to her on the couch, and she wraps her hands around the mug he gives her gratefully. The apartment isn’t cold-- in fact, with the strings of lights and the smell of apples and cinnamon filling up the place, it’s really rather cozy-- but there’s something soothing about the heat against her palms.
“This is nice,” Rafael says, holding up his own drink, and he laughs when she clinks hers against it. She knows he’s waiting her out, but that he won’t push if she doesn’t want to tell them.
“When I was ten or eleven, a colleague of my mother’s invited us to a holiday event at an orchard upstate. She had kids my age, and the orchard belonged to a cousin of hers, maybe, or a family friend. Mom didn’t end up going-- I think her initial acceptance was just the bare minimum of politeness-- but I rode up with them, and it was fun. There was music and decorations, and it was cold but there was a huge bonfire and all the apple cider and s’mores you could take. When I tried to think of good holiday memories, with or without my mom, that’s what I remembered. I figured this was a good place to start, to try it out, and maybe next year I could try and find an event like that. Or we could just do this again. This isn’t so bad, yeah?”
“No, this is good,” he says, smiling softly, “You know, my apartment has a fireplace.”
“You inviting us over for Christmas Eve next year?”
“I’m still just trying to get in on the ground floor of the Benson family Christmas traditions.”
“I seem to remember your fireplace being pretty fancy. Are you sure it’s a marshmallow-roasting fireplace?”
“I think the only way to find that out is to try roasting marshmallows in it. And if it doesn’t work, I also have a microwave.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Speaking of traditions. Hey, Noah, you ready to open some presents?” he asks, and Noah turns to him, chocolate and marshmallow smeared across his face.
“Uncle Rafa, it’s not Christmas yet.”
“I know that, buddy, but at my house growing up, I always got to open a present on Christmas Eve, so I brought some for you and your mom to open up. They’re the ones with the red stripes, go grab them. One has got your mom’s name, and the others are for you.”
When he’d shown up with the presents earlier-- two that looked like clothing boxes, a slim one she had assumed was a book, and a boxy one that sounded suspiciously like Legos when he’d passed it over to her so he could take off his coat--, Olivia had just assumed he was taking the opportunity to bring over more presents for them to open the next day. She raises her eyebrows at Rafael as Noah deposits her present in her lap, but he just shrugs. Noah, just as familiar with the particular sound of Legos in a box as she is, goes for that one first and exclaims over the picture of Santa’s sleigh and his reindeer on the front, and then again over the book. He stops before opening the last package though, and she realizes he’s waiting for her.
Giving Rafael one last look, she tears the paper off to reveal a portrait of Santa, then shuffles the box open to find a set of bright red flannel pajamas, which she can tell are soft and warm just from looking at them.
“Look, Momma, we match!” Noah’s box tumbles to the floor as he pulls out the shirt from his own set. “Can we put them on?”
She considers protesting, but Rafael’s face drops from a smirk into a comically exaggerated seriousness before she can even open her mouth.
“You guys should be comfortable on Christmas Eve. Noah, do you need help?”
“No,” Noah calls, already making a break for his room, and she gives him another look, which only results in the return of the smirk.
They really are nice pajamas, and she can already feel herself relaxing even more as she buttons the top. When Rafael had told her he’d be willing to share some of his own family traditions with them, she hadn’t expected anything this lovely and personal, although she probably should have; Rafael Barba didn’t do anything halfway.
Noah has, predictably, beaten her back to the living room. He’s sitting on the couch next to Rafael, leaning against his chest with the older man’s arm around his shoulders as they look over his new Legos.
“Uncle Rafa, did you get any presents?”
“Being here with you and your mom is my present.”
Noah considers this, noticeably skeptical. “That doesn’t sound like a very good present. Do you want some of my Legos?”
Rafael laughs, leaning his head back against the couch. “Thank you for the offer, but trust me, that’s the best present I could get. If you want though, I’ll help you work on your Legos for a bit before you need to go to bed.”
“Okay. Can I have another s’more?”
“We’ll have to ask your mom.”
“Only because it’s Christmas Eve,” she says, and they turn to look at her with matching grins.
Once Noah is settled with his s’more, Rafael helps him get started on his newest Lego project and then rejoins her on the couch, lifting his arm around her shoulders with a chuckle when she immediately leans against his side.
“You really didn’t have anywhere else to be tonight?” She feels him shake his head. “Your mother didn’t want you to go to midnight mass with her?”
“She did. But once I told her I’d be here, the cajoling mostly stopped.”
“She thought being driven a little crazy was an adequate punishment?”
When he doesn’t answer right away, she turns to find him smiling softly at her.
“She thinks you’re good for me. Both of you. She says you make me think in fireworks instead of straight lines.”
He says it in the soft, almost mumbling voice he falls into sometimes when he wants the person he’s talking to to know he means what he is saying completely, that he believes it with his whole chest, and it’s more effective than anything he ever could have shouted from any rooftop. She opens her mouth to respond, but everything she wants to say that could possibly match the sentiment he’s just expressed sticks in her throat.
“Momma! I’m sticky,” Noah says, shattering the moment pretty effectively, although it still takes her a moment to shake herself out of it to turn and find her son holding up one hand with several Legos stuck to marshmallow patches on his skin.
“Buddy, you’re always kind of sticky,” Rafael says.
“Nuh uh!” Noah responds, torn between being offended and giggling.
“It’s pretty much your base state of being. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up for bed.”
“Will you read me my story tonight? Or, wait,” he says, glancing at her, but before she can assure him it’s fine if Rafael reads to him tonight instead of her, Rafael speaks.
“Actually, the book I got you is written especially so we can all read it together. Oh, no,” he says, catching Noah’s arm when he moves to grab it, “Handwashing first.”
The book, it turns out, is printed in three different colors, so it’s easy to tell which line each of them is supposed to read, and they settle on Noah’s bed, the two adults sitting on either side of Noah. He’s delighted to be so included in the reading, but by the time they’re halfway through, his eyes are starting to drift closed, although he protests when she closes the book.
“We’ll finish it tomorrow.”
“But Uncle Rafa won’t be here tomorrow night.”
“Then we can read it the next time I’m here. Or we can start over and read it again. But you’ve got to get to sleep tonight so that Santa can come,” Rafael says.
“Alright,” Noah responds, “Love you, Uncle Rafa.”
“Love you too, amigo.” He leans down to press a kiss against his forehead, smiling at Olivia as he leaves so she can tuck him in.
“Merry Christmas, Momma,” Noah says through a yawn.
“Merry Christmas, sweet boy. I love you.”
“Love’oo,” he says from where he’s pulled the blanket up over his chin, and she can’t help smiling as she presses her own kiss to his forehead.
Rafael has turned out all the overhead lights, so the only light in the apartment is from the tree and the various multicolored strings that he and Noah had put up earlier. She stops to watch him at the stove, the stretch of his sweater across his shoulders, the way he looks warm and comfortable and right . That’s the thought that’s been swirling at the back of her head all day, just how right it feels to have him here with them in her apartment, playing Legos with Noah or sitting across from her at the dinner table or next to her on Noah’s bed as they read to him.
“Liv?” Rafael says, looking over his shoulder at her, and she realizes he had asked her a question.
“Sorry, I was… Sorry.”
“I just asked if you wanted some more of this before I transferred it to the crockpot,” he asks, pointing at the pot of apple cider. When she nods, he refills her mug, which he’d apparently retrieved from the living room, and crosses the kitchen to hand it to her.
“You know, when Noah is helping his grandkids make apple cider and s’mores, it won’t matter that it’s something you made up. All that’ll matter to him or to them is that it’s something that you gave him, and that it’s something that he’s giving to them.”
“I like that. The idea of Noah having grandkids and things to pass on to them, I mean.” She takes a sip of cider, reveling in the way that the taste of the spices has sunk more deeply in and looking forward to how good and rich it will taste in the morning with breakfast.
He leans against the counter next to her with his own mug, the same way he had the other day, and she’s once again struck by how right it felt to have him next to her, how little she’d really questioned his decision to spend most of his Christmas Eve with them, helping her with dinner and being bossed around by her kid and now lingering in her kitchen even though he has every excuse to leave. It’s not a new feeling, has echoed throughout the majority of their partnership, but it suddenly seems absolutely overwhelming. To keep from voicing anything ridiculous, she takes a deep drink of her cider, fiddling with the sleeve cuff of her new pajamas.
“These are very nice. Thank you.”
“Of course.”
“Did you really get pajamas every Christmas Eve?”
“I did.” He shifts to pull his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and handing it to her. “My mother thought you might be interested in these when she found out what I was planning.”
They’re pictures of photographs, so the quality isn’t great, but she only needs to swipe through a few to figure out what he’s showing her: pictures of Rafael Barba, in various Christmas themed pajamas, from a baby in candy cane striped footie pajamas at what must have been his very first Christmas to a gangly teenager, shoulders just starting to fill out. In most of them, he’s holding a book up for the camera, but there’s one thing conspicuously absent from any of them.
“It doesn’t look like you got any Legos.”
He shrugs, hiding his smile behind his mug. “I figured he was a little young to be introduced to a tradition based around clothes without some kind of incentive.”
“You’ll spoil him rotten, Rafa.”
“It would take a lot of work to rot your kid, Liv. But next year, I promise, just the pajamas and a book. For Christmas Eve at least.”
There he goes again, once more casually mentioning future Christmas Eves like it hasn’t even occurred to him that in a year’s time he might have found other people he’d rather spend the Christmas season with. Like he couldn’t even imagine anything like that happening.
And suddenly it’s like everything that had stuck in her throat earlier wants to bust out all at once, like a dam has finally given way after years of crumbling. She doesn’t really know what has caused it, when she’s known for years how he feels about her, about them, and when she’s known for almost as long how she feels about him. Maybe it’s Christmas or maybe it’s just the right time, but it doesn’t really matter.
“Something on your mind?” he asks, and she turns to set her mug on the counter, reaches over to take his as well.
“Just considering another new Christmas tradition.”
“Care to share?” With the apartment lit only by the strings of lights, his eyes are bright and deep, full of colors and emotions.
“You knowing about it is actually pretty important,” she says, turning just enough that she can hook her fingers into the collar of his sweater and tug him in to press her lips against his.
The kiss itself only lasts a few seconds, but the way Rafael shifts to meet her, the warmth of his hand at her hip, the flutter of his eyelashes as they part, all of that feels momentous.
“If that’s going to just be a Christmas thing, I’m really going to have to figure out how I’m going to get any work done the rest of the year,” he says, breathless, and she leans into him again.
“We could look into making it a regular thing,” she says against his mouth, and she can feel his grin.
“Stay,” she breathes after a while, her forehead resting against his and her hands now fisted in the front of his sweater. His own arms are wrapped around her waist. “For Christmas, I mean. Stay the night, and be here for Christmas tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Of course. I’ve got an extra pair of sweatpants you can borrow to sleep in, since I’ve got these new pajamas.”
“Well, if you’ve got extras,” Rafael says, and she can’t resist the urge to feel his grin against her lips again.
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“Liv,” he mumbles some time later, once they’ve turned off all the lights and checked on Noah, once they’ve found him some suitable pajamas and kissed some more, once they’ve settled under the covers of her bed, with his arm over her waist and her body pressed back into the warm solidness of his.
She hums in response, too tired and comfortable to bother with actual words.
“Was it because of the fireworks thing? Because if I’m finally spending the night in your bed because of something my mother sai-”
Olivia elbows him in the ribs, but all it does is make him laugh and, somehow, pull her even closer.
“Stop bothering me and go to sleep, Barba. Noah will probably be in here at dawn to wake us up to open presents, and he’s only going to be more wound up when he finds out you’re here.”
“That just sounds like an excuse to convince him to take a Christmas afternoon nap.”
She laughs, spreading her hand out over his and then intertwining their fingers. “Good luck with that.”
“I think Christmas afternoon naps would be an excellent tradition to start. Get up early and open presents, have a big brunch, enjoy our presents for a while, take a big nap and get up again in time for dinner. Sounds like a perfect day to me.”
“A perfect day for Rafael Barba doesn’t include at least one good argument?”
“Well, I could probably come up with something, if it’s that important to you.”
“Wow, in my bed one night and already planning on picking fights on purpose.”
“You’re the one who brought it up in the first place. Besides, you like when we argue.”
“I like when I win.”
“I’ll take that into consideration. Now stop flirting with me so we can go to sleep.”
Olivia elbows him again, but he just tangles their legs together and presses a kiss against the back of her neck. She drifts off thinking of all the days they’ll have together, all the traditions they’ll make and keep and pass on.