Work Text:
When you asked your grandmother how to knit a sweater, she had a knowing gleam in her eye. Her wizened face wrinkled further with a coy smile, forming creases beside her eyes and around her mouth.
"This is for that handsome new boyfriend of yours, isn't it?" she'd asked. You couldn't deny it. She laughed and patted your arm. "I'll show you, but you need to promise me something. You cannot give it to him until you're married. Okay?"
"I promise I won't."
Every weekend for several months, you would go over to her little apartment and sit on her couch beside her special armchair and she would show you what to do. While you mangled together yarn on your needles, her hands - weak, stricken by arthritis and unable to close fully - worked on her own, putting together little projects as she rambled on about her life.
Some days, she'd have baked bread from recipes she memorized over the course of her many years. Others, she had lunch ready and waiting for you. Occasionally, you'd bring her lunch - fatty fast foods she wasn't allowed to have very often, that she delighted and tittered over every time.
Slowly, and not without frustrations and faults, the sweater came together. She showed you how to weave in your ends, gave you a box to carry it home in, and reminded you of your promise.
And now, years later, you decide it's finally time to pull it from the back of the closet.
-
Sylus
Luke and Kieran jump on top of couch cushions and the coffee table, running around like children as they shoot darts at each other with bright, plastic guns. Of all the gifts they got this year, these are the most childish, and the start of the holiday chaos.
Sylus lifts his glass of wine in the air, protecting it from falling to the ground, as Luke rushes past him in the doorway. Kieran follows behind half a second after, mindlessly apologizing before shouting down the hall at his twin brother. You smile up at him from the floor.
"I'm glad they like their gifts," you say as he walks over. He rounds the couches with their pillows all in disarray to sit beside you on the floor. His arm naturally finds its way around your back, pulling you close, as he chuckles.
"You could've given them socks and they'd be just as thrilled."
You scoff and roll your eyes. "I'm not gonna be that person. 'Sides, they're not old enough to appreciate a good pair of socks."
He offers you his glass. A bloody red liquid dances around inside, swaying back and forth. You hold his hand as you take a sip. The wine within is sweet, but not overwhelmingly so. The sort of wine he usually pulls out to pair with dessert, to balance out the overly sweet treat you've chosen.
"Like it?" he asks. His voice is a soft rumble. It's a stark contrast to the distant shouting you hear throughout the mansion; a welcome quiet after the excitement that follows the twins everywhere they go.
"Very," you hum, and release his hand. He twists the stem of the glass between his fingers, until the mark your lips have left behind faces him. He overlays his own mouth with it as he takes a sip. You roll your eyes at his blatant flirting, and he chuckles at successfully teasing you. "You still have to open your gifts, mister."
He sets the glass down on the coffee table as red tendrils of energy guide unopened presents over from a pile beside the tree, placed there by the twins and their frantic sorting. The first he grabs has you sitting up straighter, leaning forward, eager to witness his reaction. He shoots you a glance.
"Should I be worried about what's in here, sweetie?"
"It's not dangerous, I promise," you laugh.
He smirks. "Just wanted to be sure."
He pulls apart the ribbon tied around the box. Then tears away the wrapping paper and opens the lid of the box within.
A red sweater lay neatly folded inside. A folded note lay on top of it. You watch his face as he flips open the paper and reads its contents.
There's an old myth that says knitting a sweater for a boyfriend as a gift is bad luck, and will surely lead to a breakup. But from the first weeks we started dating, I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life by your side.
I started this sweater before our one month anniversary, and I finished it after our two year anniversary. It's seen a lot of ups and downs. Been undone more times than I'd like to remember. Made me cry more than I kept track.
But now that we've been married for almost a year, I can finally keep my promise to my grandmother.
For you, my sweetest dragon.
A soft smile dances on his lips as he folds the card closed once more and sets the paper aside. Soft yarn caresses his fingers as he lifts the sweater from its box and holds it up to the light. It's not perfect by any means - you look at it and see all the little mistakes and frustrations you had to overcome to put it together - but he looks at it like you've just handed him the most precious jewel in the universe.
"Do you like it?" you ask, fishing for a verbal approval to calm your racing, anxious heart.
He turns it around and opens the bottom hem to slip it on over his head. You worry for a moment that you made it too small, that his head won't fit through the neck hole and the sleeves only go down to his forearms. Really, you made it a little loose, with sleeves that bunch at the elbows and a neckline that hangs down at his collarbones. But he smiles brighter now with it on as he pulls you into a hug.
"I love it very much, sweetheart. Thank you."
-
Zayne
No matter how many plans you make and ways you prepare, you can never truly predict the needs of Zayne's job. Expectations of a holiday without stress are thrown out the window the moment he gets a call. You understand right away what that apologetic glance across the table meant as he set down his silverware and wiped his mouth on his napkin.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," he tells the caller just before he hangs up. He stands, leaning down over the table to press a kiss to your temple. "I'm sorry, my love. They need me at the hospital."
You smile up at him. "I understand."
You leave your own plate to follow him to the entryway. He's calm and methodical as he slips on his shoes and coat. He gathers his keys from the hook, wallet from the bowl, and slips his glasses from his pocket onto his nose. Ready as quick as that.
He offers you a small smile, silently reassuring you that everything is under control, and leaves another kiss at your cheek. "Merry Christmas, my love. You don't have to wait up for me."
"No, but I will."
You steal one more second of his time. Flatten out his lapels and return his kiss, giving him your own support and encouragement.
But it doesn't last. The second hand on his watch ticks, and the moment passes. The door opens to the quiet of a nighttime snowfall, thick flakes flittering down onto the piles of snow framing the driveway. All it takes is one swipe of his hand and his Evol has brushed aside the snow on his car. A moment later, and he's pulling out and on his way to the hospital.
With no way of knowing how long his emergency surgery will take, you find no rush in finishing your dinner and putting away leftovers, wrapping up his own plate and setting it in the microwave for when he gets back. You turn off the lights in the kitchen, the living room; flick off the tree...
And then you grab a present from underneath, slip on your shoes and your coat, grab your keys from the hook, sweep the snow off your car with a brush, and drive off to the hospital.
When Zayne gets out of surgery, allowing the exhaustion to weigh down his shoulders as he trudges back to his office, his thoughts are on you. It's past midnight now, officially Christmas. He thinks of you at the table, enjoying the dinner you both made together. Your sweet understanding for the emergencies that can crop up in his work. The sight of you watching him pull out of the driveway, tugging your sweater tighter around yourself as he drives off.
His plans to text you to let you know the surgery went well and he's on the way home disappear when he opens the door to his office.
You've laid yourself out on the couch, with your slightly damp jacket laid overtop you to keep warm. One hand acts as a pillow under your head. The other holds loosely onto a carefully wrapped present.
As quiet as he can be, he kneels down on the floor by your side and carefully pries the gift from your hold. You shift slightly, but don't wake. Even as he peels away the tape and unfolds the paper neatly, its crinkling doesn't disturb you. He opens the box with a smile already on his lips.
Inside is a baby blue sweater, made of soft yarn and careful attention to the cable pattern that makes up its composition. He picks up a note folded on top and reads it to himself.
I promised my grandma I wouldn't give you this until we were married. From the moment we met, I knew I would marry you, so I wasn't worried.
I know you have a whole collection of sweaters - my adorable snowman - and I know this one isn't going to be perfect no matter how many times I undo and remake it, but I hope you still like it. You deserve nice, soft things, and to be warm.
So, two and a half years of labor and another year to prove to my grandma we won't be splitting up, my gift to you.
I love you, my moon.
He sets the box on the low table beside him and turns to you. His beautiful spouse, coming all this way just to ensure he opened this gift tonight. He carefully holds your hand and presses a kiss to your forehead.
"Thank you for staying by my side for all this time, and reminding me that I am a human, not a machine. I love you, too, my jasmine."