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trbl-will-find-me · 6 years

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Coffeeflower: Tis the Season

The last few days before Christmas present an unexpected challenge.

(Weir belongs to @inbatcountry17 and Tanya is @coloneljamesmoriarty‘s --- thanks, friends!!)

The first warning comes from Betos, out and about on her weekly flower run.

“He is planning something. You should be prepared.”

The second comes from the AD-Mart Speaker, irate at the man’s casual disregard for the wonders of AD-Mart in the face of a single stock failure.

The third comes in a text from Weir: Tell me you don’t have mistletoe.

She is not exactly surprised, then, when Konstantin Volikov saunters through her door.

He slaps a twenty dollar bill on her counter. “As much of your finest holiday cheer as this will buy.”

She cocks her head. “I mean, I can make you a fairly nice bouquet for that. Nothing fancy, but a pretty hostess gift.”

“I don’t need flowers, Regan.”

Her eyes dart from one side to the other. “I have some news for you.

“You’re a florist! You have to carry it!”

“Carry what?” She asks, praying the warnings are simply rumors.

“Mistletoe!”

She draws in a deep breath. “Volk, it’s toxic to pets. And it’s niche. I don’t even carry lilies --- and those are practically a staple.”

“So, there’s nothing? Nothing in the manger for a poor, desperate bastard? Isn’t that a sprig behind you?”

Internally, she winces. She does in fact, have some left over from the wedding she’d done a few days prior, but has no intention of selling it to him. Instead, she shakes her head. “I didn’t know you felt that way about Elena. You’d probably have better luck if you just talked to her. Cheaper, too. Fewer plant toxins involved.”

His eyes light up. “I’m casting a far broader net than just Dragunova.”

“You wouldn’t be planning on a public declaration of love for my favorite coffee shop owner, would you?”

“I would never! Those sorts of things should be intimate. If you catch my meaning,” he leers.

Lizzie sighs. “You’ll have to find other bait, Volk. You’re out of luck.”

Holiday season means he feels more military official than civilian, commanding a small detachment against the hoard of irate holiday shoppers.

He looks down from the pot of coffee he’s brewing to see a text from Lizzie light up his phone. Trouble incoming, hun. Volk’s up to something.

Bradford sighs.

Sometimes, he hates the holidays.

She yanks her coat tighter around her, and gestures for Weir to roll down the window.

“Come inside,” she says. “It’s too cold.”

“It’s fine, Lizzie.”

“It’s twenty degrees out.”

“I’m in a car.”

“A car that’s too cold for Jane, which means it’s too cold for you.”

He glowers at her, but there’s no real sincerity behind it.

She shivers, and crosses her arms. “Are you really gonna make me stand here?”

Again, the glower.

She changes tactics. “I have hot chocolate, but I’m not bringing it to you out here.”

He considers this for a moment. “Alright, you win. I’ll be in in a minute.”

She grins. “Good. “

She’s greeted at the door by Jane, who sits obediently waiting for her human. She traipses towards the backroom, sloughing off her layers onto the couch before starting on the hot cocoa.

She hears the door open again, and the familiar sound of Jane padding after Weir’s leggy stride. She stirs the chocolate shavings into the steaming milk, the distributes it among two mugs.

“Be careful,” she says, passing one to him.

He wraps his fingers around the mug. “Nice and warm in here. Thanks for this.”

“I was cold looking at you. You had to come in.”

He chuckles. “When are you heading out for Christmas?”

“I’m not actually. I’ll be here.”

“Your parents coming stateside?”

She shakes her head. “Nah. They’re in the middle of something, but they couldn’t really specify what, so I’m guessing some kind of negotiations. They can’t get here and I can’t get there, so…” She shrugs. “John’s going down to St. Augustine to spend Christmas with his mom. I’ll probably crash whatever my godmother’s up to. What about you? Exciting holiday plans?”

Weir pulls out his phone and fidgets with it for a moment before setting it in front of her. She's greeted with a photo of a man --who, if she squints or glances too quickly, could be a dead ringer for her boyfriend-- holding a tiny red headed girl, grin plastered across her face. "I fly home tonight. I've got a date with those two and the Zoolights at Point Defiance tomorrow."

Weir’s been a source of many surprises. The fact that he has a daughter is simultaneously unfathomable and completely natural. Somehow, it makes perfect sense.

"She's adorable."

Weir grins. "She’s five. Her name’s Sally. She wants to be a sea otter when she grows up. It's a great plan, but she's afraid of the water."

Lizzie laughs. "She'll figure something out."

He shakes his head, but the smile never fades. "We've had her since she was two. It'll be good to be home."

Her phone buzzes and she looks down. Who gave this asshole mistletoe?

Volk is standing at the pickup counter, wrapped in a filthy trenchcoat with a wicked glint in his eye. There is mistletoe pinned to the coat’s tie.

Out of instinct, Bradford covers Kelly’s eyes.

“Boss?”

“I’ll tell you when it’s over.”

“What’s---“

“John!” Volk caws. “I’m wounded that you think I would---“

“Držet klapačku,” a voice groans. “Shut up!”

Briefly, he considers the odds that the powers that be are smiling on him after all, that someone will intervene before Volk’s shenanigans reach their seemingly inevitable conclusion.

Tanya Mercier, a vision of jet lagged exasperation, steps out of line.

She’s not one of his regulars in the typical sense, but he still sees her with enough regularity. He’s fairly certain she travels, somewhere far by his estimate; she’s exhausted more often than not, a small suitcase her almost constant companion.

He has a certain soft spot for travelers; he blames his mother.

She skulks across the space, and grabs Volk’s collar with a gloved hand.

“Ne kolem dětí,“ she grumbles.“Do you mind?“

It takes him a beat to realize the question is aimed in his direction.

“Not at all.“

He watches the woman drag Volikov out the door, shutting it with a bang behind her. Satisfied, he uncovers Kelly’s eyes.

“What ever she orders, it’s on the house.”

The terminal is quiet at this time of night. Weir shoulders his bag, and heads for the arrival gate, Jane trotting along happily at his side. She knows who waits for them.

There’s a purpose in the work he does, a point. There are things out there, forces that threaten every human life; keeping them at bay means keeping his family safe. He’d give anything to do that.

But god, he sees them standing there, and he never wants to leave again.

Sally is a bright pop of color against the darkness of his husband’s coat, half-asleep in his arms. John himself looks exhausted, one too many long nights taking their toll.

There is no relief quite like wrapping the both of them in his arms.

He catches John in a kiss, then takes Sally from him. She is still so small in his arms, head nuzzled under his chin.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” He teases, and is rewarded with a quiet giggle.

John takes Jane’s leash from his free hand, then knots his fingers with his. “You ready to head home?”

“More than you can possibly imagine.”

Lizzie’s not used to alone time. With the shop, her relationship, and the various small emergencies that pop up as a result of the former, she’s grown accustomed to being busy. She’s not sure what to do with a respite, let alone one lasting several days.

Her phone buzzes with an email from Weir. Spying the attachment symbol, she reaches for her laptop and opens a browser. Whatever it is, she wants a good view.

She’s greeted with a list of photos.

Weir sits on the floor, surrounded by a small mob of children. Someone’s perched a magician’s top hat on his head. She recognizes Sally, the lone redhead, and assumes the rest are her cousins. For his part, Weir seems to be attempting a scowl, but she can see the barely concealed laugh in his eyes.

Then, there’s Sally, hoisted on the hip of a man who Lizzie assumes is her grandfather, though he hardly looks old enough. His clear blue eyes crease in a smile as he talks to someone out of frame.

An enormous family photo, one that she’s surprised holds all of its occupants in frame. Weir, his husband, his siblings, their partners, an army of cousins, and Jane, plopped down front and center, a Santa hat obscuring her missing ear. Weir looks happier than she has ever seen him.

Sally, again, this time perched on a carved beluga whale, Weir’s husband with his hand on her back, holding her steady. Her tiny gloved fingers struggle to grasp the circumference of the carousel pole before her.

The next photo is odd. Shot from a low angle, and dark compared to the others, like the person behind the camera didn’t quite know how to work it. Still, she can just make out the two figures —Weir and his husband, judging from the height—contentedly holding hands against the night lights of the zoo. The file has a note: Sally’s contribution. She laughs; it certainly explains the angle.

The final picture is Sally and Jane, the tiny girl pillowed on the enormous dog, Weir’s parka wrapped around her, the Christmas tree just out of frame.

It ends with a simple note. Merry Christmas. See you soon.

#xcom #fic #coffeeflower

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