'Not a White Christmas' (Reese Version)

[Alternate Text: A header image of a snow globe with sprigs of evergreen tree and string lights around it. It appears to be lightly snowing in the indoor setting. The main focus is the decoration; it has a shiny, silver base, while its interior is all white. Within the globe, a trio of white trees create a tiny winter wonderland. The title 'Not a White Christmas' is in regal all caps with a crimson shadow stretching out behind it.]

For maximum feels and context, please read (or re-read): "(Un)deck the Halls" before experiencing this writing. 🥰👀🖤

Classical music wafts up to the balcony and viewing area that encircles the grand ballroom.

From here, their guests resemble beautiful bows and ornaments as they slowly twirl and dance, coming together and apart in time with the music. They're so much prettier from afar. Merry red, snowy white, sumptuous gold, and festive emerald tend to overtake the floor in honor of this time of year. Reese presses closer to the marble balusters, peeking between two of its carved supports rather than standing tall to peer over the top of the railing. He is all alone.

It's better this way.

He shouldn't be kneeling down, hunkered, and watching the revelry that's going on for far too long. Tonight marks the final addition to their family Christmas tree, his most special ornament, before turning in for the following day. The 25th doesn't have any events slated for it. He checked his father's schedule, which also had an end time for this party and a little star mark.

His parents are late…

Cool marble digs into Reese's cheek when he rests his face on one of the pillars, feeling his expression dip into a begrudging pout. No one can see him, so it's perfectly fine to be—

Icy blue eyes a shade cooler than his own are on him so suddenly, he almost rears back. His mother somehow located his hiding spot in the weak shadows of the balcony, finding his place among the encompassing 'U'. She watches him even as his father continues to keep the perfect tempo. Reese isn't sure whether to cheekily wave, stare, or slink away because he should be with the other children right now.

Still, he remains frozen.

As the song comes to an end, his mother says something to his father who instantly turns to offer him a fond look, although it's muted. He will not smile up at the balcony and draw attention to where his heir is crouched. Reese has enough sense to stand again, straightening up under both of their attentions that aren't harsh.

His mother frowns slightly, possibly conflicted by something or unsettled, which instantly redirects his father's focus away from him. He leans in closer under the guise of the music, cupping her face to murmur something. As always, the other dancers cede them space to be in the center, a focal point. They deserve it.

Reese grips the marble tightly out of concern when his mother tries to glance at him again.

He's already backed up and away, much harder to spot in the waning shadows of the balcony.

His parents share a private conversation as the final notes fade out before a new song begins. He has been watching them for a while, using the vibrant tie and Rudolph tie tack he selected for his father as a way to locate him. Not that it would ever be hard for Reese, but he's mildly proud of the color combinations: silver and red, like a metallic candy cane. It matches his mother's silvery dress. They let him have that.

They let him have some 'involvement' before this night's festivities created separation.

A graceful exit is no longer possible thanks to another song sending the dancefloor back into a kaleidoscope of festive colors. His parents will be caught until the end of it; maybe that's a good thing. Reese turns from the railing, only to find someone else lingering in the background.

Charlene offers a pretty smile that soon twists with humor. "Are you moping around? Now?"

"No, I was simply taking a break," he replies.

"Santa Claus hates liars," she easily counters him before messing with the manual scooter that's leaning up against the wall. The brake lever on its handle hasn't been broken in yet, too stiff from newness. "I guess he doesn't hate you too much though, Reesie. Mine's in 'Racer Purple'."

"He isn't real…"

Charlene affects an aghast expression, her lips part in shock before she starts to slowly tip the scooter over from its place of rest. Reese is fast enough to grab it. His warning look only causes her smile to lengthen out. "What's real is: our snowball fight," she asserts. "I picked you first—my MVP—and you just left me in the gardens. It was meant to be us versus—"

"I did not wish to play with them."

"Because of a horse? We're supposed to stay in the gardens until they're done, you know that."

Reese roughly wrestles his new scooter from Charlene's fingers because she's still messing with its brake lever. The soft metallic hiss was starting to irritate him. "There was no reason to pelt her with snow," he quickly points out. "I will not waste anymore time on them. This day isn't about them—any of them." More emotion seeps into his tone, a mistake. Charlene must pick up on it because her joking posture switches into something else he can't place. She leans in.

"And you threw an icicle, Reese."

He did.

The distress in the horse's whinny made him so upset that breaking off a nearby icicle felt fair; it happened too quickly. "There were rocks in the snow, Charlene, and she is my father's horse," he reasons in spite of knowing how this could've ended badly. She knows it too. Reese tries to quell his reaction, slipping on a false smile. "I would never aim at you. That's what matters."

Charlene takes it—accepts it—by matching his smile before she glances away to the stairs.

"I'll say you aren't feeling well," she decides. "I'll let you mope, and I'll even let you rest for your upcoming snowball fight with your [Surname]."

He dislikes how she said your last name, although there's a palpable 'but' just waiting.

"But remember: someone had to let you."

Charlene watches him for a moment until she laughs to herself and leaves down the stairs to both do damage control and inflict some. Still, it means he's alone again, which isn't always a bad thing. Reese collects his scooter, already mentally mapping out a route through the back halls of the palatial mansion that will become his race track. The marble can endure it. He manages to dodge most everyone, adept at knowing when a child's place is to be seen and not heard. It isn't one of those times.

They had their dance earlier; it was a showcase of cotillion footwork along with their fancy attire.

Now, the adults are having their moment in the ballroom, or more importantly, in the throngs of socializing, gossiping, and business dealings along its edges. His father once told him that dancing with his mother was a reprieve. Music drowns out the rest while they're kept close in each other's arms instead of assessing what's around. It's an escape in the heart of the event.

He'll remember that.

Reese's thoughts are the only company he has while careening down the long halls. No one's around to tell him otherwise, so he keeps on picking up speed to blitz down another one and then another. It's only when he grows bold to start trying to twist to a stop or to take a corner too fast, that he realizes a problem. The brake is sticking. It works, just there's a delay in between him squeezing it and how it clamps on the back wheel to decelerate his speed. He starts to slow down—to adjust—but it's still too quick.

BANG!

He hits a side table, an antique that's withstood decades of use, landing on his side in a heap and then something falls on him too. Reese's earlier anger is still within easy reach. "Damn it!" he half-exclaims. "Stupid piece of—" He stops his cursing tirade when what's on top of him rolls lower to stare back beneath its fearsome, bushy brows. "Ludwig." Reese collects the old nutcracker with care, hauling himself up into a seated position. The aches from the fall are supplanted by nostalgia from a childhood story. He admires the details of the decoration.

His father told him a story about King Ludwig, the man whose castle inspired fairytales. He was also called 'mad' by a few, but Reese liked him on principle of him being interesting. Naming this nutcracker after him occurred years ago, yet he's always posted somewhere to guard their home.

Through the rush of blitzing around, Reese hadn't noticed he was getting closer to the more private part of the mansion. There are areas meant for public display and business along with those that are in-between before getting to the family's rooms. He glances back down at Ludwig before standing up again and leaving his scooter behind for now. His gait is a little stiff, tender. At least he didn't break anything.

Like the nutcracker, many of these decorations have been with the Verners for generations. The level of craft in Ludwig's carving and hand-painted regal, military outfit is difficult to find these days. Besides, most new decorations wouldn't have a legitimate mini-weapon.

Reese smiles down at the nutcracker's glinting polearm axe, focusing on that rather than how his steps are echoing faintly in the mansion. He uses the lever to hold a silent conversation with him. It isn't unusual for him—these self-contained games an only child would create; however, they don't have the same appeal as competitions with you. Ludwig asks for a status report on his injury because he's the only one around to have witnessed the fall.

"I'm tougher than that," Reese boasts. "Strong."

"Then why the limp, young Verner?"

He doesn't reply to that question, walking with taught poise again and less echoing steps.

"Why the dour mood? You are not the one on duty."

"It feels like it," he mumbles. "I thought dinner and a dance was going to be the end… But no."

"It could be far worse: frostbite, a frigid blade through your gullet, icicle impalement—"

Reese stops moving the lever when he hears footsteps up ahead followed by voices that definitely aren't his parents. No, they're unfamiliar sounding, one seems frantic and the other's gruff. From a nearby alcove, out comes two people who are dressed in the penguin-like outfit of this evening's servers. They shouldn't be here.

"You said there were fuckin' jewels, Dickens!"

"I know, I know, Marney… Shhh, please, shhhh."

"No, you don't," Marney seethes. "You delivered booze for this party and got ahead of yourself."

"You are trespassing." Reese's controlled voice slices through their brewing disagreement that will ruin Christmas that much more. He won't let that happen to his family. "Get out."

They stare at him.

He inclines his chin in an effort to make up for the height difference, completely secure in the fact he is a Verner, the heir. He belongs here; it's his home… His father doesn't need to worry about these people. Reese stepping forward prompts Dickens, the mousey one, to scuttle back until Marney claps him on the shoulder to stop his retreat. Reese remains proud, even if they should both be cowing down now, so he pushes it further. "I know your names—your faces—and if you try anything, I will scream."

"Let's just go—he's their son. We'll end up, like, I don't even know what they'll do."

Marney ignores her accomplice's fears. "You'll scream over that fancy music?" she asks. "I guess you've got a set of lungs on you, eh?"

"You are welcome to find out," Reese retorts. "I know my father will ruin you both." That didn't get the lady to stop coming closer. Running could work, unless they have a gun, yet a small part of him recoils at the idea of fleeing. He's gripping Ludwig more tightly now. "…He will."

"Where do your parents keep their best jewelry?" Marney asks. She gestures for Dickens to flank the kid so that they're both advancing on him. "Not the necklaces and chains—those insane gems. If they're real."

"It isn't a myth," Dickens mutters.

Reese slides his left heel back, torn between bolting and standing his ground when they're mere steps away. "It's a private collection."

Marney chuckles in disbelief. "Okay, where's the 'private collection'?" she clarifies. "We could get that and more for him… Way more."

Her amused leer turns into something opportunistic when she looks back at Reese; it's something he quantifies in seconds. She isn't going to let this go. That's dangerous, and the tiny polearm axe is locked in the nutcracker's hand, possibly glued to the wooden base he stands on. There isn't anything else in sight to toss at her. Reese's heartbeat picks up just like out by the stables, vision tunneling slightly as he tries to take in what's around—what to do.

He's emotional—angry, upset, prideful, and afraid—but that should be funneled into action.

He was taught better.

But all Reese grasps onto in this tense moment is an uncompromising need to strike first.

"Nope, he's a kid—a child. It's too far."

"He's perfect, Dickens."

"We can't get out of this! It isn't a quick haul."

When Marney goes to roughly grab Reese's arm, Ludwig unhinges his jaw to bite down on her extended hand. Reese ensures at least two of her fingers are in the slot before slamming the lever down. It's brutal, a muted crunch. He still tries to break through those fine bones rather than relenting. Instantly, the intruder cries out, reaching out to push him away from—

A snow globe impacts Marney's head before shattering against the marble in a pool of liquid and glitter. She reels back, stunned, while Dickens stares in horror. Reese turns to see his mother rather than his father at one end of the hallway with a downright frigid look on her face before she extends a hand to him.

He goes to her in an instant.

She brings him to her side in a hug, but Reese doesn't have a chance to say something to her.

"You wish to view a collection…?"

Everyone turns to Mr. Verner at the opposite end of the hallway, though all Reese sees is his father blocking an escape. They're caught in between. He hasn't looked at Reese yet, intent on staring down these Intruders.

"I have one to show you in our curiosity room."

"Sir, listen," Dickens starts. "We didn't—"

"Fuck, he broke my finger," Marney loudly complains, still clutching her head before bracing on her accomplice to weather any dizziness. "Shit."

Reese peeks down at Ludwig to see the crimson staining his beard alongside his teeth.

"We didn't steal anything, sir. Honestly."

"No, you did something far worse. Go on." Mr. Verner signals to his nearby security. Two men dressed in black follow the order without any hesitation, taking the intruders by their arms to walk them deeper into the mansion. "I will show you what you missed soon enough…"

Dickens is still trying to make a case about how they're mostly innocent, except Reese is too focused on how his mother's hold tightens to keep him close. She isn't looking at him. His father continues down the hall. His expression softens for him, though it isn't immediate because he casts a long glance at where the intruders went before concentrating back on them.

He's distracted by what's to come.

Reese is aware of this, reaching out to take his hand, which hides away that vengefulness so it's just a dapple of something dark. He smiles faintly for Reese, kneeling to be at his level and taking an interest in the bloodied nutcracker. It almost helps to put him at ease. His mother's hand hasn't left him even while they're alone.

"Ludwig deserves a medal of honor," Mr. Verner jokes. "I will have one made for him."

"I messed him up, the blood."

"It adds character," he kindly disagrees. "I should have him in our security detail instead."

Reese feels his mother's fingers briefly tense before she skims them down his cheek to offer unsaid comfort to him. He spares her a glance before focusing back on his father. "Are we going to have to reschedule?" It's a question no one else has to ask their parents aside from maybe Charlene; she doesn't seem to care as much. "Our tree decorating?" Reese finds it easier to peer at Ludwig's wet beard than the regret eclipsing his father's love for him. "That makes sense…"

It still isn't fair!

"I promise to take care of things tonight, but then Christmas day will be yours—ours," Mr. Verner vows. "Star, you have my word. I cannot let what happened"—he releases his son's hand—"stand… They were rather naughty."

The weak humor doesn't land, not when he peeks up to see the unrepentant steeliness in his father's gray eyes. He is beyond outraged, but it's kept mostly controlled. He's better at it.

"Okay," Reese agrees to those terms. "Also, I hit a side table."

"Were you hurt?"

"No."

"Then we have too many of them, regardless."

Reese grins some at that. He'd hug his father if his mother wasn't holding fast, but they trade a fond smile before his parents share a look that has multiple levels of communication. He can't parse them all out; no one could aside from the two of them. It's special. Reese almost rolls his eyes when they share a quick, cheek kiss where his mother rests a hand over his father's heart.

Finally, they part ways leaving the two of them alone in the remains of a broken snow globe.

Reese watches his father walk away before the suggestion of baking cookies for Santa from his mother doesn't pull a scoff from him. He's aware of the truth, but there's comfort in this little, white lie. He hugs her back in earnest.

Tomorrow will be their day.

. . .

. .

.

"So, it really is blood…"

"Did you think it was ketchup, [Surname]?"

You stop inspecting the nutcracker, Ludwig, at Reese's teasing remark, lightly batting at his chest, though he easily captures your hand to hold it close. "We don't need to revisit that particular, dark memory," you remind him. The dead boar flashes across your mind. "I liked yours."

"You did? It wasn't the most riveting."

"It was yours, so I liked it, Verner." You cut through his playfulness with ease after sensing his vulnerability while he recounted the story. While you know nothing bad happened, hearing that a young Reese came across intruders did worry you along with the loneliness throughout the tale that he chose not to fully hide. You lean in closer to share a sweet kiss with him, minimally pulling back. He doesn't let you go too far by wrapping his arm around you. "Charlene was annoying back then too. At least she's consistent… But it's cute you were 'saving yourself' for a snowball fight with me."

"I merely wanted you to have the best experience of defeat at my hands."

He says that so proudly as if it will make up for the dusting of a blush to his cheeks. You're far too tempted to kiss him to help deepen that hue, but Reese lifts an eyebrow in challenge. He knows. It does mirror something he said about his parents, those shared looks. For a moment, you seem to relent, letting your hand slip free of his grip before turning back around to kiss his cheek.

"That was 'devious' rather than 'naughty'," he points out without any bite. Reese is blushing more now, unable to hold steady eye contact as he surveys the undecorated entry. Your days-long clean-up has been successful. The festive decor is almost completely stashed away. "Satisfied?"

"Almost. I think Ludwig should stay out year-round and then I'll be. He can go somewhere else."

"He is a nutcracker."

"He's more than that, but it's your call."

Reese softens for you, choosing not to say anything further while collecting your hand in his along with the nutcracker who had been hidden away for too many Christmases in the mansion.