Chapter Text
“I don’t even celebrate Christmas,” David muttered.
Fox reached up to adjust his scarf for him, pulling the threaded ends tight — and pulling him down in the process for a quick kiss. His lips were soft against hers, a little chapped from the cold, and their breath fogged up the air between them. But still, Fox lingered.
“It’ll grow on you,” she said, “once Alex is old enough to appreciate it.”
Alex was in fact currently ensconced in David’s arms and mildly squished between them. He grabbed onto Fox’s coat with his chubby fists and babbled out something that sounded like complete gibberish to Fox, but made David’s face light up like — well, like a Christmas tree.
“Did you hear that?” he asked, adjusting his grip on Alex so he could hold him up in the cold air. “Only six months old and he’s already speaking in full sentences! He said ‘I hate Christmas, Ma. I’m a Grinch.’”
Fox turned to Owen with a roll of her eyes. He had the helicopter ready to go and was now waiting for them, grim-faced and wearing a pair of pastel pink earmuffs that Alex had ‘picked out’ for him by grabbing them off a sales rack two weeks ago and chucking them straight at Owen’s head.
“If you’re ready,” said Owen primly.
David sighed. He tucked Alex in the crook of his elbow and held out his gloved hand to Fox, giving her a boost up into the copter. As soon as she was inside she reached back down and hauled David in with her, careful not to unbalance him with the baby. His fingers twisted around hers, tight but soft thanks to the gloves.
They were strapped in and lifting off before Fox chanced another, closer look at David — with his face turned to the window and Alex occupied with the new experience of flying in a helicopter, David’s exasperation had faded into something else.
Nervousness, maybe. Only slightly, but it was there, and Fox understood that well enough. David liked to be in control. That meant he decided which holidays he celebrated, and he decided where to host them. But Petros had successfully wrangled an unwanted Christmas get-together out of his son, and even worse, he’d managed to talk a reluctant David into meeting in his old hometown of Bar Harbor, Maine. The loss of control here was minimal, really. It was nothing compared to David’s nightly tussles with Mutates and trickster gods. But it was one thing to go toe-to-toe with a supernatural being and quite another thing to spend Christmas with your father for the first time since…
“When was the last time you two spent Christmas together?” Fox asked.
David gave her a beady-eyed sideways stare. Fox thought of her own ‘Christmases’ with Halcyon and Anastasia — frosty affairs usually more focused on holiday fundraising galas than on the family. She gave a one-shouldered shrug to show David he didn’t have to answer, and his guarded expression fractured a little.
“I think I was ten,” he said. “But we never really celebrated . I don’t know what Pop has planned for us.”
He said that last part with a hint of darkness in his eyes that made Fox bite back a smile. In the pilot’s seat, Owen spared them a dry backward look, mostly centered on David.
“If it comforts you, sir, I doubt it involves anything too high-stakes.”
“Define high-stakes,” said David. “We’re going to Bar Harbor, Owen. That’s enough for me, thanks.”
This time Owen shared a look with Fox instead. There was nothing to do for it, she decided. They’d prepared as best they could — they’d secured a room at Bar Harbor’s nicest bed-and-breakfast so David wouldn’t have to share a house with Petros; they’d carefully selected a gift, thoughtful enough to pass muster but with no hidden message behind it, totally neutral in tone; and they’d packed generously for all of Alex’s potential needs. All that remained was a week or so in Bar Harbor, scenic and sleepy, so Petros could get to know his grandson. And it wasn’t that David disliked his father. It was just that Petros seemed to halfway dislike him sometimes.
David would just have to get used to it, Fox supposed. She sympathized, of course.
She’d laughed in Halcyon’s face when he invited them over for Christmas.
Alex was a good-natured kid. Like Fox when she was a baby, he almost never cried. Like David when he was a baby, he kept his eyes open and his head on a swivel (so long as he had the proper support … he was only six months old). And like both Fox and David, he was always smiling, always reaching for people, always making new friends.
But a helicopter ride was bad enough for any six-month-old, and the blast of cold air coming off Bar Harbor was even worse. By the time they hopped down into the snow, Alex was red-faced and bawling.
And uncontrolled baby-tantrum magic was sizzling in the air.
“Owen,” said David, his voice tight as purple lightning crackled in his hair.
Owen hurried forward, his face taking on a distinctly puckish bent as he leaned over Alex. His hand passed over Alex’s eyes; he whispered something in a language that David didn’t recognize, but it made Fox’s eyes sharpen like she’d heard it before. When David blinked, it seemed there was a faint shimmer in the air around Alex’s body — an iridescent glow that might have been nothing more than a reflection of sunlight off snow. In his hands, Alex’s body warmed significantly and the screaming stopped. Suddenly content, Alex melted into his father’s arms and closed his eyes.
“The cold won’t bother him now,” Owen said.
Well, hey, that was pretty nifty. David shared a look with Fox, eyebrows raised. They bumped shoulders on their way down from the landing pad, drawing near to each other.
“Only six months old and he can already regulate his body temperature!” David whispered.
“David,” Fox whispered back.
He gave Alex an exaggerated kiss on the top of the head. Ahead of them, Owen led the way down to the street, where thick drifts of pure snow were mounded on every surface and a plow was hard at work clearing the street. The sun was barely up — sparkling off the sea — and the quaint harbor houses all around them were strung up with twinkling Christmas lights. David pulled a sour face at the sight of them … but he slipped his hand into Fox’s and gave her a light squeeze, and he didn’t let go.
It was intoxicating, Fox had to admit. The same way Christmas in New York City was intoxicating, but … but here everything was slower, less crowded. There were fishermen on the frozen wharf and gulls crying over the icy sea, but in town, where New York would be teeming with people, the streets were soft and quiet. Owen walked a little ahead of them and located the inn, craning his neck to read the sign overhead.
He tried the door. It didn’t open. He tried pushing it instead; it didn’t budge, and inside, a deadbolt rattled on its chain. David raised his eyebrows and glanced at Fox.
“Trouble’s afoot,” Fox said.
Owen tugged at the door handle again, dislodging a fine dust of snow from the frame. Inside, a light clicked on and a key turned in the lock. The bolt scraped out of place.
“Help you?” said the innkeeper, sticking her gray head out the door.
Owen blinked down at her, expressionless as ever. “We have a reservation,” he said flatly. “The Xanatos family. Party of four.”
“Xanatos?” The innkeeper’s face lit up and she looked around for David, who for just a split second looked like he wanted nothing more than to slink away. With Fox still clutching his hand, and Alex nestled in his arms, he didn’t have the freedom of movement to duck behind the nearest light pole. “David Xanatos! Why, I thought your father would have called you!”
David rose to the challenge gamely. He gave her a charming smile, all teeth, and hoisted Alex a little higher. “I didn’t know you knew Petros, Mrs. Hancock,” he said, raising Alex’s right hand in a wave.
“Well, sure,” said the innkeeper brightly. She waggled her fingers at Alex. “You must have missed his message — our pipes froze up again, we’re closed for business. You’ll have to stay with Petros this time around.”
“Aw, we won’t bother the old man,” said David easily enough. “I’m sure there’s someone with a vacancy. Bar Harbor always closes down for Christmas.”
The innkeeper gave him a strange look. Confusion. Comprehension. Something sort of like sympathy, but not quite so strong. “You don’t visit much, do you?” she said. “Petros told me it had been a while. But I thought…”
David said nothing. That pleasant expression was still on his face, but a little quizzical now. He stopped breathing for long enough that Alex stirred in his arms and looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.
“Tourist season lasts year-round these days,” the innkeeper said. “You’ll be hard-pressed to find an open bed and breakfast this close to Christmas — but come inside, warm up. You can use my telephone.”
David hesitated just long enough that Owen stepped up to answer for him. “Thank you for the offer,” he said. “We will contact Petros ourselves.”
He held up his mobile, already dialing Petros’ number. David met Fox’s eyes, his face unreadable; then he turned and glanced down the street, toward the harbor.
“Where does he live?” asked Fox.
David nodded toward a distant dock. The houses there were weathered but sturdy, crowding up against each other and fighting for space on the water.
“Scenic,” Fox said. She flicked a sideways look at David. “Does this mean I get to see your childhood bedroom?”
David just snorted. He bounced Alex in his arms, shaking off whatever dark mood had come over him. “There’s no sense in waiting out here,” he said briskly. “Pop will be here to pick us up — eventually. In the meantime…”
He turned and gave the innkeeper a dazzling smile. “Do you remember me from elementary school?” he asked, ducking through the front door with Fox at his heels. Inside, it was stiflingly hot, with Christmas trees stuffed into every corner and a warm spicy scent of cinnamon in the air. Owen stayed outside, the mobile held to his ear.
“Well, of course I remember you,” said the innkeeper. There was a little strain in her face, but it disappeared when she saw that David had accepted her hospitality. To Fox, she said, “Your husband used to help my Paulie on the docks, hauling ice in the summertime. He made quite the sight, this little twig of a boy wrestling the same blocks of ice as everyone else. You had all these big burly fishermen carting wheelbarrows down to the ice holds, and then you had little David Xanatos, too small to see over the handlebars—”
“Ice!” said Alex. “Ice!”
The innkeeper blinked like an owl. David’s face split in a wide, triumphant grin. He gave Alex a tight, careful hug.
“Only six months old,” he said smugly.
By the time Petros Xanatos rolled up to the inn in his rickety pick-up truck, the pale winter sun was high over the ocean and there was a light snow falling — thin, fluffy flakes, like powdered sugar landing in Fox’s hair. Petros glanced out the window at them as he put the truck in park, his face set in its usual craggy scowl. Then he spotted Alex and all that cragginess washed away.
“Alexandrakis mou!” he cried, pushing the truck door open with his shoulder. Ice cracked along the seam; gray slush fell to the curb. “Let me see you!”
Alex was exchanged like a sack of flour — a wide-eyed, smiling sack of flour who immediately twisted his fingers in Petros’ beard and shrieked: “Doggy!”
“And speaking already!” Petros said, his eyes sparkling. “Oh, my little love — David, it was six months before you spoke!”
David opened his mouth to answer, but Petros was already correcting himself.
“Oh, but he is six months — how time flies!” And he kissed Alexander’s forehead, just as David had earlier, and David stared down at his feet and rubbed his nose. Fox had never heard Petros say so much at once. She sidled up to him, one hand on his arm and the other supporting Alexander’s back while he cooed and studied his grandpa’s face.
“We’ll get the bags,” David said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the helicopter.
“So big already!” Petros said to Alex. “He looks like a one-year-old!”
“Doesn’t he?” said Fox with a guarded smile. She nodded to David and Owen as they left. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Petros. The innkeeper said we’re not likely to find any vacancies this time of year.”
“Ach, don’t fret about it,” said Petros, bouncing Alex in his arms. He didn’t even glance Fox’s way, his eyes firmly fixed on the baby. He curled his forefinger into a hook and held it to Alex’s lips. “Is he teething yet?”
“Just started. But he’s quiet.”
“Davie was never quiet,” said Petros firmly, slipping into a childhood nickname that would have left David looking wounded, if he were here to hear it.
“Yes, he told me he was a little terror. Then again, he still is a terror,” said Fox. She flashed her canines. “I wouldn’t have married him otherwise.”
Petros tightened his face and pretended not to hear. In his arms, Alex noticed the finger pressing against his lips and clamped his gums down on it eagerly, with all the ferocity of a baby shark.
“And such fine hair!” Petros said, raising his free hand. Gently, he ran his fingers through the silky red hair atop Alex’s head. “Oh, nothing like Davie at this age.” He darted a guarded glance at Fox. “He takes after you.”
“Well, he is a little like David,” said Fox with a smirk. She raised a gloved hand and waved at David and Owen as they descended, loaded down with suitcases, and David with Fox’s designer bag slung over his shoulder. He gave her a bright smile and hefted one of the suitcases in return. Petros watched it all with hooded eyes. He approved of the baby, at least; Fox still wasn’t sure he approved of her.
Not that she cared. She tucked her hands in her pockets and waited for David to return.
“Don’t let him bite you, Pop, that’s what his teething ring is for,” David said at once. He slung the suitcases into the back of Petros’ truck.
“Same thing your mother used to say,” Petros said with a huff, making no effort to remove his finger from Alex’s jaws. David froze for a moment, color draining from his cheeks, and then shook the comment off. He helped Owen chuck the remaining luggage into the back and hopped up to rearrange it all, avoiding Fox’s eyes the whole time. When he jumped back down to the sidewalk, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ears — dark and glittering from the snow. This forced him to look at her. A quick glance, just to check in; his eyes said it all, and hers too.
“Ready?” Petros asked, still bouncing Alex.
“If you’ll surrender my son to me,” David said, holding out his hands. He made grabby motions until Petros reluctantly handed Alex over.
“You could always drive, you know,” Petros muttered grumpily.
“You can hold him when we get to your place,” David said. All of them noticed that he didn’t call his childhood home ‘home.’ But none of them said anything. They piled into the cab of the pickup, forcing Owen to sit right next to Petros, with Fox squeezed between her husband and his faithful servant, giving David as much space as possible from his father. Elbows bumped into ribs and boots scraped against calves as they got situated. The sweet smell of tobacco and old leather filled the cab; the cloth stapled to the roof of the truck had started to sag and scratchy yellow foam leaked from the rips in the seats, but it was cozy enough after standing in the cold winter air. The radio crackled to life, slipping right into an uneven rhythm as it limped its way through a local ad for an ice-scraping service.
The truck’s engine sputtered; the wheels slipped and ground against the road, finding their grooves. David rolled his window down as Pop pulled out, waving goodbye to the innkeeper — and then, cheeks flushed from the cold, he cranked the window back up again and settled into his seat … letting Alex chew on his gloved finger. Outside the window, snowy fisheries and creaking boats passed by, the thrusts caked in ice, the hulls pocked with frosty barnacles. David’s sharp profile against this backdrop, his catlike eyes and sun-kissed skin, all of it looked — somehow — right.
He fit in here, Fox realized, a strange, warm feeling melting in her chest. Even in his expensive tailored clothes, in an old truck falling apart at the seams, he didn’t look out of place at all.