A Charming Forest Spirit and His Bunny repost

[thatrcooper]

What are you doing?” Ian’s voice came out a little high-pitched when he was aiming for calm. But he thought some alarm was justified. Martin wasn’t accident-prone, but he was clumsy when distracted, and there was no way he wasn’t distracted as hell sitting on the cabin roof and leaning over the edge to hang lights from the eaves. 

Martin jerked up, flailed, then shot Ian a pissy look that said that had been Ian’s fault. A second later, residual nerves or something else had him turning a festive shade of red. He considered Ian, then resumed his work with the lights, scooting down to hook them to nails he must have hammered in earlier. 

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” The wavering note in Martin’s voice took a lot of the sass from the words. “I’m decorating for Christmas.” He didn’t look up.

Ian stared hard and somewhat anxiously at the knitted green hat with pom poms covering Martin’s hair, then glanced around the area in front of his house. An area that had recently begun to look more and more like something that might be called a yard. 

It wasn’t domesticated. There was no field of useless grass or picket fence. But the berry brambles were free of spiderwebs and there was a patch of mint in the one spot that got the right sun. Ivy decorated the house but hadn’t been allowed to overtake it, and along the stone path to the door–as there was now a stone path to door– was a sign with Forrester carved out of wood. A friendly hello of a sign, if not a complete smiling welcome. 

Ian had a feeling that was only a matter of time. 

His fairy tale house, as Martin had once called it, was becoming absolutely charming, and that was before Martin had decided to decorate for Christmas. 

The string of lights he was putting up were the simple, old-fashioned giant bulbs from a long time ago, although these were probably some modern energy-saving version, knowing Martin. He’d put more lights in the bushes and even around the front door. 

On the door itself was a handmade wreath of green and red holly, tied with a white ribbon that Ian had seen Martin absently twirling around his wrists a few days ago while making decisions in the craft store. 

Ian had assumed the ribbon was for presents, or something, and had spent a good hour worrying that Martin would not only expect good, thoughtful Christmas presents, but well-wrapped good, thoughtful Christmas presents, while Martin had picked out twine and new scissors and ribbon and big wire hoop. Then Martin had wanted to go to the hardware store and really, Ian should have known. 

“It’s not too much?” Martin fidgeted with the end of the light string. “It’s just some lights, really. I figured Christmas was going to be one of those things you usually only see from the outside, or maybe don’t celebrate as Christmas but maybe as Yule or something?” He peered over, then looped the last bit of cord on the final nail. “So lights and a holly wreath are okay?” 

“Do you usually do a lot on Christmas?” Ian asked carefully. He liked to think he was a careful man by nature though Martin assured him he was not. Not at all, babe. Not even a little. Nonetheless, with Martin and the topic of his parents, he had learned to be cautious. 

Martin shrugged, then wobbled, and Ian quickly stepped away from his car. But Martin right himself and cleared his throat. “Make her some stuff, watch her ignore it or criticize it. Get high in the bathroom, go home, get drunk. Imagine what my dad is doing without me. Watch A Christmas Story. Pass out.” He shrugged again. “Guess I won’t be doing that this year. So I thought…. You know. I could do what I want. If you want it. It’s your house.”

Ian snorted but wisely held his tongue on that subject. Martin had a lot more than a drawer or a toothbrush in his bathroom. Ian owned different kinds of laundry detergent now. He had two shelves of Martin’s comics and graphic novels in his living room in a bookshelf Martin had built. Martin was in his house and taking it over with far more creeping tenacity than the ivy and Ian could not have been happier. 

Except maybe once Martin was safely down off the roof. 

“We didn’t really do holiday stuff when I was a kid. For any holiday,” Ian clarified, surprising himself with how hoarse his voice was. He waited a moment. “It looks like a charming forest spirit lives here.”

“A charming forest spirit does live here,” Martin replied smartly, but then took a deep breath. “So you like it? It’s not too much?”

“There isn’t a dying tree in my house, is there?” Ian tried to sound teasing but didn’t think he succeeded. 

Martin raised his head. “Of course not,” he said softly. “Not even a plastic one. Not for you. I didn’t do anything inside the house, anyway.”

“Why not?” Ian pouted through his relief at not being subjected to a Christmas tree. “Not even mistletoe? Don’t you love me anymore?” 

Wide eyes fixed on him for a moment before Martin huffed. “I was worried you wouldn’t like it.”

Ian pointedly looked over his house, now a warm, cheery, festive home, with lights in the fogged-up windows and a puffing, pink-cheeked Martin on the roof, like a bunny in two thick jackets and a crookedly knitted hat. 

“What do you want to do inside the house?” he asked, then put out a hand. “Wait. Tell me when you are down here and not up there scaring the life out of me.”

Martin’s eyes lit up but he nodded and then made Ian lose his mind as he swung himself down, stretched his legs toward the ground, and looked as if he was going to jump the rest of the way. 

The fact that he had probably done exactly that between putting in the nails and getting the lights did not stop Ian from bolting over to catch him. 

To be perfectly honest, Ian might have done that anyway. Things were easier with Martin in his arms. Even when Martin crossed his arms and sulked and insisted he would have been fine. 

He didn’t insist too hard, anyway. Two jackets or not, he was cold all over. Ian was happy to warm him up. 

“So,” Ian started again, carrying Martin toward the door. “What are the plans for inside?”

“Well.” Martin studied him for a few steps, still uncertain about these things, still shy about his ideas. “Nothing big. Some candles and stuff over the fireplace. But I did want to try making fudge in your kitchen if that’s okay.”

“So okay,” Ian answered seriously. “As long as I get some.”

“Dork. Of course you do.” Martin hummed, already relaxing. “Also… are you doing anything Christmas Eve? If you’re not working, we could hang out. I don’t know. It might be nice.” 

“I will check the schedule,” Ian promised. “Would Christmas Day do if I have to work the night before?” 

“I suppose,” Martin decided, with an air of great sacrifice that he ruined by curling his arms around Ian’s neck. His hands were like ice. Ian would have to think of a way to warm him. 

Ian glanced at the wreath before he pushed open the door. “Did you have any of that ribbon left?” he wondered as he stepped inside. 

“Ribbon?” Martin lifted his head from Ian’s shoulder. “What for?” 

“Plans of my own,” Ian told him, leering, and closed to the door to their house firmly behind them.