Work Text:
Aleksander rolled onto his side with a low, disgruntled groan, dragging the blanket up over his head in a futile attempt to shield himself from the winter sun. It did nothing. Harsh light poured relentlessly through the frost-laced windows, scattering across the room like shards of glass.
They had left the curtains open the night before to stargaze, a decision he now deeply regretted. The cold had crystallized on the glass, feathering the edges of the panes in delicate white. Outside, the world was awake and bright, far too energetic for his liking.
Emma lay curled against his chest, tucked neatly beneath his chin. One arm lay draped over his torso, her breath rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. Her brow was faintly creased, lips parted just slightly, as though she were negotiating the terms of a stubborn dream.
Aleksander carefully freed one arm and brushed his thumb over the small lines between her forehead. Slowly, the tension eased beneath his skin. He smiled faintly to himself and tugged the blanket higher, cocooning them both against the cold.
As if sensing his gaze, Emma stirred. She pressed her face into his shoulder, eyes still closed, and let out a soft sigh before nuzzling closer.
“Is it morning?” she murmured, her words barely formed, heavy with sleep.
“No,” he answered quietly, as though the morning itself might overhear. His hand found her cheek, tucking a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear. “Go back to sleep.”
She hummed, unconvinced, shifting slightly closer. “The birds must be confused, then.”
His smile deepened. Eyes still closed, he breathed her in deeply—vanilla, warmth, and something unmistakably Emma. “No birds sing in December.”
“Hm.” She shifted again, brow furrowing anew. “Then it might be the sun is singing.”
“The sun’s still asleep,” his voice was muffled by her hair. “Like it should be.”
She tilted her head back just enough for her lips to brush his chin, the soft scrape of stubble making her smile. “Then maybe,” she said thoughtfully, “I heard Santa’s bells?”
Aleksander paused, listening to the quiet beyond the window. The world felt hushed, frozen in place, as though even time had decided to stay in bed expectant.
“…You’re right,” he conceded at last. “Probably Santa.”
His fingers brushed through her hair, in slow and soothing circles, trying to guide her back to sleep, but instead, Emma laughed in delight. The sound bloomed warm and bright in his chest, warmer than the heater humming beside the bed. Her fingers tightened briefly against him, tracing idle patterns along his side before she scooted to the edge of the bed and slipped out of it, taking all the heat with her.
Cold rushed in to replace her.
Aleksander groaned and buried his face into the pillow like it had personally betrayed him.
He heard the dresser drawer slide open, the rustle of fabric accompanying the sound. Moments later, footsteps returned, and before he could fully comprehend what was happening, something heavy landed squarely on his chest.
He cracked one eye open, squinting at the pile of…. color. So much color.
“…What,” he muttered, “is happening?”
“We need to dress you up!”
“Emma—”
“This year,” she interrupted, tugging the blanket away with alarming determination, “you are my Christmas Tree. Just like you did to me last year.”
He let his eyes shut again, memory flickering to life—Emma standing in her room back then, still in pajamas, hair a mess, insisting she needed to be as pretty as a Christmas Tree. He’d never told her she already was.
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow, when it’s actually Christmas?” he asked weakly, knowing full well his attempt was futile.
“But Santa is coming,” she replied very seriously. “And he leaves presents under the Christmas Tree. If there’s no tree, where will he put yours?”
With a sigh that was more fond than tired, Aleksander reluctantly sat up and swung his legs over the bed. The cold bit into his bare feet instantly. His body felt heavy, the temptation to slip back into slumber almost overwhelming, but Emma’s bright face pulled him forward like a gentle tide.
She tugged a shirt over his head, fingers clumsy with enthusiasm as she worked the buttons. Her tongue peeked out in concentration, brows knit as if the task carried great responsibility. Her hands were careful. Reverent. It made his chest ache, his earlier sleepiness forgotten.
Finally, she stepped back, hands on her hips. “Ta-daaa!”
Then she frowned again. “But I don’t hear bells anymore. He might’ve left.”
With a playful glint in his eyes, Aleksander reached out and gently tugged her nose. “He already left my present for me,” he said, mischief in his tone.
“Oh?” Her long lashes fluttered as understanding dawned, a warm blush creeping across her cheeks. “Then you should unwrap it.”
“I might need help,” he replied, a lazy smile curling at the corners of his lips. “Some presents are notoriously well-packed.”
Emma’s nose scrunched as she pretended to think it over. “Well,” she said solemnly, “Santa is very busy this time of year. As his assistant it is only fair to help.”
He huffed a laugh. “You’ve been hiding your secret job from me?”
“Surprising you,” she corrected, gently pushing him back onto the mattress. The sheets were cold for half a second before she climbed over him, her knees bracketing his hips, hair falling like a curtain around them.
“Now,” she whispered dramatically, hovering above him, “no peeking.”
“I can’t see anything anyway,” he said, eyes closing. “You’ll have to be my eyes.”
“Good.” She leaned down, breath ghosting against the corner of his mouth. “Trees shouldn’t get distracted.”
He laughed under his breath. “I feel I need more decoration to be worthy of such a present.”
She tapped his chest thoughtfully. “Hmm. You’re right.” Then she reached behind her, grabbed a scarf from the pile, and looped it around his neck with gentle care. Her fingers brushed his skin as she adjusted it. “There. Garlands.”
“And the ornaments?” he asked quietly.
She paused, fingertips lingering, tracing slow, absent lines over his chest. “Hiding.”
“Cruel,” he breathed.
“Patient,” she teased, resting her forehead against his. “Santa likes patient trees.”
He looped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer until she fit against him perfectly. “Good thing my present is prettier than any ornament ever will be.”
She laughed softly, settling into him, warmth blooming where the cold sheets had dared to linger. Outside, the pale winter light softened, filtered through frost and falling snow. Inside, the heater hummed, Santa faded into imagination—
and for a little while longer, the morning could wait.