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She is going to set a bomb off and she cannot bring herself to feel guilty.
There will be an explosion.
Concepts may vomit.
Christmas will find it's drawn out guts twisted around the bannister and adorning a tree corpse. There's not peace on earth so why would there be even mild mercy? She will show none.
This. Is. War.
Mind, war is awfully unfestive. Perhaps the decorating process is simply unrelenting.
Battle plans have been drawn up and they'll (possibly) be stuck to with laser-like precision.
A star there; baubles nestled in branches; tinsel twisted everywhere; and strings of cranberry popcorn.
Well, those line her stomach until something hits her back. Something salty and reminiscent of cranberry. And sticky.
She whips around.
“HENRY MCCORD.”
Now this is war. Peace on Earth be damned and may Hell be warmer than the frost outside.
Like a machine gun, she pelts him with popcorn after popcorn.
The lounge furniture, like the deserted cities they both trained in decades ago, shelters her from the oncoming fire.
Jumping behind a wall, she can't help but notice that her husband has been replaced by her son. Outsourcing. Innovative.
Where, then, was Henry?
From seemingly nowhere - which she will later realise is the hall’s entrance to the study - he appears, his lips meeting hers in a kiss.
Definitely against the rules of combat.
But rules, well, rules are made to be broken.