Chapter Text
All heads turned to the door, as it slammed shut behind a frazzled Félix. He was panting, face aflame, and the first words out of his mouth were, “We have nothing!”
Marinette blinked in confusion— “What?” —and Brie jumped to her feet, the blonde's panic immediately becoming hers as well, and she echoed, “We have nothing!”
Félix strode across the room, heading straight for their bookcase, heeding only the little girl, so he wouldn't crush her on his way. He reached for the cardboard box on the topmost shelf and pulled it.
The box's bottom gave way and its contents tumbled out. Tinsel fell cluttered on the floor, baubles shattered on impact, and a row of Christmas lights descended upon the poor man, who tried to catch them all. It was all over in a matter of seconds and he sighed—a microsecond too early—before all the lights lit up in bright reds and yellows and greens.
Félix slumped—how unlucky was he!
Brie had plugged the lights in.
“Why don’t we take a moment to calm down and then you’ll tell us what happened?” Marinette suggested, helpfully lifting the lights from Félix, as though removing them from a Christmas tree.
Félix looked up, reinvigorated, “But—”
“It’s Christmas!” Brie cheered, picking up some tinsel. Bauble shards stuck to it, swaying dangerously, and Félix, recognizing danger it posed, confiscated it promptly.
“Maybe some tea is in order,” he agreed, setting the tinsel aside and picking up the little girl. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.
They moved to the table. Marinette started making the tea. Brie clung to Félix, grabbing his hair to braid it the way her friend at kindergarten had taught her.
“So what’s up?” Marinette asked, watching them affectionately, as the kettle began to hum, bringing the water slowly to a boil.
If Brie’s presence had forced Félix to calm down a little, then Marinette’s question revived his anxiety.
“I saw the neighbors today,” he admitted shakily. “They were putting up Christmas lights!” Marinette blinked in confusion. “And we have nothing!”
“We have nothing!” Brie threw in cheerfully.
“They’re going to think I’m the Grinch!”
Marinette snorted. “No, they’re not.”
“They are!” Félix protested, cheeks coloring. “The old lady who lives next door came to ask for salt the other day when you weren’t home and she said I should smile more…”
“Screw whatever the neighbors think.” Marinette kissed him on the cheek. “You’re…”
“The Grinch!”
“But—”
Félix jumped from his seat, swooping Brie up as he went, and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. It sent the little girl into a fit of kicks and giggles. Marinette smiled affectionately and decided to let him have this one.
How long would it take him to realize Christmas was still almost six months away?
“We can’t let them think I’m the Grinch,” he rambled over Brie’s glee, and pulled down another box of decorations, careful not to drop the little girl who had no plans of being dropped. She clung onto him with every fiber of her being, as though her life depended on it, all smiles and laughter.
“I want a cauldron for Christmas,” she announced excitedly, “and a bunny.”
“We can’t have pets in the apartment,” reminded Marinette, a half-smile lighting up her face. Brie grinned at her, smug and mischievous, as she looked over Félix’s shoulder at her guardian.
“ Santa doesn’t know that.”
“Oh, Santa definitely knows,” Marinette smirked back. “That’s the important part.”
Disappointed in the new knowledge, Brie blew a raspberry at her. Marinette rolled her eyes and fell back, a curious bystander more than a participant. She was tired—it had been a long day—and full of affection. She loved him.
Félix set Brie down and together, they dug into the box. It was so big it almost swallowed the little girl whole. When she pulled out, there was gold in her hair and glitter on her face, and she smiled exactly like someone discovering Christmas had arrived early this year.
And let’s be honest, it had. What little Brie knew about Christmas was all good: delicious food, presents, but most importantly—time with family.
They spent the rest of the evening setting up the lights, hooking them through the trellis on their tiny balcony, arranging them (after Marinette’s incitement) in the shape of a cat-like face that lit up in Christmas green. They admired it for a moment, Marinette eating popcorn made in a microwave from a plastic bucket Chat Noir had lifted from the cinema, unable to hide how much the whole thing entertained her.
“All done,” Félix wiped his hands against his pants before holding a hand out for the little girl. “Good work, Tiny!”
Brie high fived him, the clap piercing the cool evening air. “Nicely done, comrade Colossal.”
“Comrade?” Félix raised an eyebrow at her. “Where’d you learn that word from?”
Brie shrugged indifferently and Félix looked at Marinette, wondering if maybe she knew.
She mouthed, “protestors,” and he nodded in complete understanding.
Brie yawned loudly.
“Time for bed perhaps?” Félix suggested, picking her up when she reached her arms for his neck. She wrapped herself around him, snuggling closer, and rested her head on his shoulder. Her eyes closed slowly.
“No bed,” she insisted, forcing them back open, sleep written all over her face. She was the cutest that way, or well—almost the cutest, relented Félix, glancing at Marinette.
He carried Brie to bed—she was asleep before he tucked her blanket in—then joined Marinette on the couch, where she allowed him to snuggle closer, trapping heat between them. It was warm and cozy, and when the tiredness of the day washed over them, it did so gently and unnoticeably, as though rewarding them for doing well.
Sleep was sweet and kind, and the morning even more so, for although Félix woke up to a stiff neck, Marinette was also there, right beside him. He smiled, still half-dazed, as dream and reality melded into one.
But as is usually the case with peace, it was not meant to last.