Burnt Secrets

Zuko raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“A snowman,” you repeat, crouching to scoop up a handful of snow. “You’ve seriously never built one?”

“No,” he replies flatly. “And I don’t see why we should start now.”

“Because it’s fun,” you say, tossing the snow lightly into the air and catching it. “When’s the last time you did something just for fun?”

Zuko exhales sharply, his brow furrowing. “This is ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, stepping closer. “What would Aang say if he saw you refusing to enjoy the snow? He’d probably call it a crime against nature or something.”

That earns you a dry glare, but after a moment, Zuko sighs. “Fine. But if this is some elaborate scheme to make me look stupid…”

“Too late,” you quip, grabbing a handful of snow and starting to roll it into a ball. Zuko mutters something under his breath but crouches beside you.

At first, he watches as you roll the snowball across the ground, the base growing larger with each pass. “You’re just rolling it?” he asks, his tone skeptical.

“That’s how you start,” you say, grinning. “Then you pack it tight.”

Zuko hesitates before scooping up a handful of snow. His movements are stiff and cautious, as if he’s handling something explosive. “Like this?”

“Yeah, but more pressure,” you instruct. “It’s snow, not glass.”

He huffs and presses his hands into the snow, his brow furrowed in concentration. For someone who regularly wields fire, he’s surprisingly meticulous about packing the snow. It’s kind of endearing.

After a while, the two of you manage to stack three uneven snowballs atop one another. Zuko steps back, frowning critically. “It’s… lopsided.”

“It’s perfect,” you counter, brushing snow off your gloves. “Now it just needs a face.”

You gather pebbles for eyes and a crooked twig for a nose, then start sticking them onto the snowman. Zuko watches with his arms crossed again, his skepticism palpable. “This is what people do for fun?”

“Yep,” you say, sticking on the snowman’s mouth with a flourish. “And now… it needs something extra.”

You step back, tilting your head as you study your creation. The curved base, the round body—it reminds you of something. Or someone.

“It looks like Appa,” you declare, grinning.

Zuko snorts softly. “Appa? Really?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t see it.” You point to the snowman’s round shape. “All it needs are some horns and a tail.”

Zuko mutters something about wasting time but crouches to help anyway. He shapes a stubby tail at the back while you add twigs for horns. His hands are sure and steady, and you’re struck by how much effort he’s putting into something so simple.

When you’re done, you step back together to admire your work. The snowman—Appa, you’ve decided—looks ridiculous but lovable, with its lopsided body and crooked grin.

“It’s not terrible,” Zuko admits grudgingly, his golden eyes scanning the snowman. “For a snow bison.”

You grin and nudge his arm. “See? You’ve got a hidden creative side.”

“I don’t have a creative side,” he replies, though the faintest smirk tugs at his lips. “I just followed your instructions.”

“Sure, sure,” you say, laughing. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Your Majesty of Snow Sculpting.”

He huffs, but his ears turn red—not from the cold, you’re certain. The two of you stand in companionable silence for a moment, watching as snowflakes drift lazily from the sky, catching on your snowman’s horns.

When you glance at Zuko, his gaze isn’t on the snowman anymore—it’s on you. The usual intensity in his eyes has softened, replaced by something warmer, quieter. It makes your chest feel lighter, like maybe, just maybe, you’re chipping away at his icy exterior.

“Thanks,” you say softly, nudging his arm again. “For helping.”

Zuko shrugs, but the corner of his mouth lifts in that almost smile you’re starting to recognize. “It wasn’t terrible.”

You tug your scarf tighter around your neck, trying to ignore him. "It’s called being human, Spike. You should try it sometime."

"Why would I want to?" he retorts, flashing a teasing smirk. "All that pesky breathing, eating, and freezing your arse off nonsense. No thanks."

You shove your hands deeper into your pockets, exhaling a puff of frosty breath. "You’ve got to get some new material, Spike."

"Why? This works just fine," he quips, his voice dropping into a playful murmur. "You always bite when I pull your tail."

You ignore him—or at least you try to—but it’s hard when his gaze lingers on you, sharp and assessing, like he’s trying to see past the surface. Since Buffy left for Italy, Spike’s been different. Still sarcastic, still sharp-tongued, but there’s a new softness in him, like he’s figuring out how to move on from her. And then there’s the way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice...

A rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts, your body tensing as you grip your stake. Spike’s demeanor changes instantly, the teasing gone as his predatory instincts take over. A moment later, two fledgling vampires lurch out of the shadows, their movements erratic and feral.

"Finally," Spike mutters, cracking his knuckles. "I was getting bored."

The fight is quick but intense. You duck as one of the fledglings lunges for you, its claws slicing through the air where your face had been. Spinning on your heel, you drive your stake into its chest, and it crumbles to dust before it can even cry out. Spike, meanwhile, dispatches the other with his usual flair, staking it with a bored expression as though he’s done it a thousand times—which, of course, he has.

When the dust settles, you’re out of breath, your chest rising and falling in sharp bursts that fog the cold air. Spike leans casually against a tombstone, twirling his stake like it’s a toy, completely unruffled.

"You alright, love?" he asks, his smirk returning. "Not too winded, I hope. Wouldn’t want my dragon passing out on me."

"Would you stop calling me that?" you huff, brushing dirt from your jeans.

"Why? It suits you," he teases, stepping closer. "Fierce, fiery, and entirely too much fun to rile up."

"Keep it up, Spike, and I’ll show you fiery temper."

He raises a scarred eyebrow, his smirk softening into something more playful. "Promise?"

Your cheeks heat—not from anger but from the way he says it, low and flirtatious, the words curling through the space between you. You hate how easily he gets under your skin. Or maybe you don’t hate it as much as you pretend to.

"Come on," he says suddenly, nodding toward his crypt. "You’re freezing your scales off out here. Let’s get warm."

✦ ✦ ✦

Spike’s crypt is warmer than you expected, though that’s likely due to the small space heater humming in the corner. The air smells faintly of leather and whiskey, and the flickering candles scattered around give it a surprisingly cozy atmosphere.

"You’ve upgraded," you remark, eyeing the threadbare but inviting couch as you settle onto it.

He shrugs out of his duster and tosses it over a nearby chair. "Figured I’d make the place a bit more hospitable. Not that I get many visitors these days."

"Well, consider me honored," you quip, though there’s a weight to his words that lingers. Since Buffy left, Spike’s world has grown smaller, quieter. You suspect he’s still figuring out how to fill the void she left behind.

He grabs a bottle of whiskey from a nearby table and takes a swig before holding it out to you.

"Here," he says. "Warm you up."

You hesitate for a moment before accepting. The first sip burns, but it spreads warmth through your chest, chasing away the chill of the night. Spike sits down beside you, closer than he needs to, and you’re hyper-aware of the space—or lack thereof—between you.

"So," he says, leaning back and stretching his arms along the back of the couch. "What’s it like, being one of the Chosen?"

"It’s... a lot," you admit, staring into the amber liquid in your hand. "Buffy made it look easy, but it’s not. Sometimes it feels like I’m just trying not to screw up."

"Buffy was good," he says, his voice softer now. "But she had her share of screw-ups too. Don’t sell yourself short, love. You’ve got fire. You’ll figure it out."

The mention of Buffy hangs in the air for a moment, a ghost neither of you can ignore. You glance at him, trying to read his expression, but it’s unreadable.

"Do you miss her?" you ask quietly, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is low, almost a whisper. "Used to think I’d never stop missing her. Thought she was it for me, you know? But... things change."

His eyes meet yours, and there’s something raw and honest in his gaze that makes your heart skip a beat.

"And now?" you ask, barely more than a whisper.

"Now..." He trails off, his lips quirking into a small smile. "Now I think I might be moving on."

The air between you crackles with unspoken possibilities, and for a moment, you forget about everything else—the patrols, the vampires, even Buffy. It’s just you and Spike, the space between you shrinking by the second.

"You’re not as much of a pain as you think, you know," you say softly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

"Careful, love," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. "Say things like that, and I might start thinking you like me."

"Maybe I do," you admit, your cheeks heating despite the cold.

For once, Spike doesn’t have a snarky reply. Instead, he leans in, his hand brushing against yours. His gaze drops to your lips, and for a heartbeat, the world seems to hold its breath.

But before he can close the distance, a loud crash outside shatters the moment.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, standing and grabbing his stake. "Can’t a bloke get a moment’s peace?"

You laugh despite yourself, standing and pulling your jacket tighter. "Come on, dragon," he says with a wink, holding the door open for you. "Duty calls."

Sam chuckles, setting the box on the coffee table in front of you. “I figured we could use a break. And hey, it’s festive.” You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. “Alright, Winchester. Let’s do this.”

The table is soon transformed into a sugary battleground. The kit includes walls, a roof, frosting in a plastic bag, and an assortment of candies that look slightly questionable but smell undeniably sweet. Sam carefully arranges everything with the precision of someone who has built a thousand IKEA bookshelves while you eye the frosting like a hawk–already scheming. “Okay, we start with the base,” Sam says, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pipes a line of frosting along the edge of the cookie walls. His big hands are surprisingly steady, and you can’t help but admire his focus.

“That’s cute,” you tease, picking up your own piping bag. “But my side is going to blow yours out of the water.”

“Oh, we’re making this a competition now?” Sam raises an eyebrow, his grin growing. “I thought this was supposed to be a team effort.”

“Teamwork is overrated,” you reply, nudging his elbow just enough to make his line of frosting wobble.

“Hey!” he protests, laughing. “You’re going to regret that.”

It starts innocently enough. You’re both diligently working on your respective sides of the gingerbread house, each stealing glances at the other’s progress. Sam’s side is neat, with perfectly aligned gumdrops and a roof that could be in a magazine. Yours… well, it has personality. “Why do you have all the gumdrops?” you ask, narrowing your eyes as Sam sneaks yet another piece of candy onto his side.

“Because I got here first,” he says, popping one into his mouth for good measure.

“That’s cheating,” you declare, grabbing the frosting bag and aiming it at him. Without thinking, you swipe a dollop of frosting across the bridge of his nose. The look of pure shock on his face makes you burst out laughing.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that,” Sam warns, his voice low and teasing. Before you can react, he dips his finger into the frosting and smears it across your cheek. You gasp, feigning outrage as you grab a handful of flour from the nearby bowl and toss it at him. It’s chaos after that—frosting, flour, and candy flying in every direction. Sam’s laugh is loud and carefree, the kind of sound you don’t hear often enough from him, and it fills the small room like sunlight.

By the time the battle subsides, the table is a disaster. Flour dusts the air, and bits of candy stick to your fingers. The gingerbread house stands in the center, a wobbly, candy-laden masterpiece that looks like it barely survived a storm. You’re both out of breath, sitting side by side on the couch and surveying the mess. “Well,” you say, brushing a streak of frosting from your arm. “It’s not winning any awards, but it’s ours.”

Sam leans forward, inspecting the lopsided roof with a critical eye. “It’s got character,” he agrees, his voice soft. You glance at him, your heart skipping a beat, when you notice the frosting still smeared on his nose. Without thinking, you reach out and wipe it away with your thumb. His green eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly quiet.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. Before you can respond, he leans in, closing the space between you. His lips are warm and soft against yours, the kiss slow and sweet, like the moment itself. When he pulls back, his hand lingers on your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray bit of flour.

The air between you shifts, charged with something deeper, something you’ve both been skirting around for weeks. His eyes darken, flicking down to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he admits, his voice husky.

Your breath hitches, and before you can think, you’re tugging him closer, kissing him with a fervor that surprises even you. His hands find your waist, pulling you onto his lap as the kiss deepens, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. Your fingers tangle in his hair, and he groans softly against your mouth, the sound making your pulse race.

Sam’s hands slide under your sweater, his touch warm against your skin as he trails his fingers up your back. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips moving to your neck, kissing and nibbling along your jawline until you’re squirming in his lap.

You tug at his flannel shirt, pushing it off his shoulders to reveal the toned muscles underneath. He’s breathtaking, all broad shoulders and lean strength, and the way he’s looking at you makes your knees weak. “Sam,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as he shifts, laying you down on the couch and settling between your thighs.

He pauses, his hand cupping your cheek as he searches your eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice gentle despite the tension in his body.

“Yes,” you breathe, pulling him down for another kiss.

Sam’s lips trail fire down your neck as his hands caress your sides, the warmth of his touch chasing away every thought but him. He shifts his weight, pressing his body against yours, and the heat of him sears through your clothes. Your hands slide over the planes of his shoulders, gripping him as his mouth moves lower, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

The soft glow of the fire bathes the room in flickering light, casting shadows across Sam’s face as he pulls back to look at you. His hair falls slightly into his eyes, his lips swollen, and his chest heaving. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “I don’t think I can take my time with you.”

Your fingers skim over his jaw, your thumb tracing the edge of his lips. “Who says I want you to?” you tease, your voice breathy. The words light a spark in him, and he leans down, claiming your lips with renewed intensity.

In one fluid motion, he sits back, lifting you into his arms as though you weigh nothing. You let out a soft laugh of surprise, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to the bed. He lays you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours as he settles over you. The tension between you hums like a live wire, the weight of his body grounding you in the moment.

His hands are sure as they slide beneath your sweater, pushing it up and over your head. You shiver as the cool air brushes your skin, but Sam’s touch is quick to warm you. He leans down, his lips brushing across your shoulder, then lower, kissing along the curve of your breast. Your back arches as his hands explore, every touch sending sparks skittering down your spine.

You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He obliges, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Your hands roam over his chest, marveling at the heat and strength of him, the way his muscles flex beneath your touch. Sam groans softly as your fingers trace the lines of his abdomen, his hips pressing against yours in response.

“God, you drive me crazy,” he murmurs, his lips finding yours again. His kiss is fierce, all-consuming, and you lose yourself in the sensation of him. His hands trail down your sides, hooking into the waistband of your pants and tugging them down. You help him, shimmying out of them as he follows with his own, leaving you both bare and vulnerable in the firelight.

Sam pauses, his gaze raking over you as though committing every detail to memory. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, his voice reverent. His words make your heart flutter, but there’s no time to dwell on them as he leans down, his lips brushing over your ear. “Let me show you.”

What follows is a blur of sensation—his lips and hands exploring every inch of you, the way he whispers your name like a prayer, the way his body moves with yours in perfect rhythm. The fire crackles in the hearth, the snow falls softly outside, and the world narrows to the heat between you, the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters.

Time seems to stand still as you reach the peak together, his name spilling from your lips as he groans yours into your neck. He holds you close, his body trembling slightly as the moment washes over you both. The room is silent except for the sound of your breathing, the fire casting a warm glow over the two of you.

Sam rolls onto his side, pulling you into his arms. His hand brushes your hair back from your face, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I think we make a damn good team,” he murmurs, his voice low and content.

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “Only when you don’t steal all the gumdrops,” you reply, your tone teasing but affectionate.

He chuckles, his laugh rumbling against your cheek. “Fair enough. Next time, I’ll share.” His arms tighten around you, and you let yourself relax into his embrace, the warmth of him and the fire lulling you into a blissful haze.

The snow continues to fall outside, blanketing the world in quiet, but inside the inn, the earlier chaos has given way to something softer, deeper, and undeniably real. For now, the case and the danger can wait. Tonight, it’s just you and Sam, and that’s more than enough.

The world narrows, your other senses sharpening in the absence of sight. You hear the faint rustle of leather as Geralt shifts beside you, his presence a steadying anchor against the vastness of the night. His hand, rough and calloused, slips into yours and guides you a few steps forward.

“Alright,” he says finally, his voice softer now, a rare trace of wonder woven through it. “Open them.”

Your breath catches. The sky above is alive. Waves of green and purple ripple across the heavens, like ethereal banners unfurling in a silent symphony. Streaks of pink and blue race between them, illuminating the snowy peaks of Skellige in surreal, otherworldly hues. The aurora dances, untamed and wild, a fitting reflection of the man standing beside you.

Geralt watches you, not the lights. His golden eyes glow faintly in the reflected brilliance, softer somehow, the hard edges of his usual stoicism momentarily softened.

“You’ve seen this before,” you say, barely above a whisper. It’s not a question.

He nods, gaze drifting upward at last. “A few times. Usually when I was hunting in the far north.” He pauses, then adds, almost reluctantly, “Never stopped long enough to look, though. Until now.”

The words hang between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You don’t press him to explain. He doesn’t need to say it—that this is a rarity, a moment plucked from a life otherwise consumed by contracts, monsters, and blood.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, leaning into his side. His arm slips around your waist, pulling you closer. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the thick fabric of his cloak, hear the faint sigh that escapes him as he relaxes against you.

“It is,” he says after a moment, his voice low, almost reverent. But when you glance up, his gaze isn’t on the sky—it’s on you.

A quiet descends between you, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the pines. You rest your head on his shoulder, letting the warmth of his body seep into you as the northern lights continue their dance above. For a while, the world feels impossibly vast and yet impossibly small, narrowed to just the two of you and the ethereal glow of the sky.

“Peace is... rare,” Geralt says suddenly, breaking the silence. His tone is contemplative, almost wistful. “Moments like this—they’re worth more than gold. More than any contract.”

You tilt your head to look up at him, surprised by the quiet vulnerability in his expression. His gaze remains fixed on the horizon, the faintest crease between his brows as though he’s weighing each word carefully.

“When I was younger,” he continues, his voice softer now, “I didn’t understand what Vesemir meant when he talked about needing something beyond the Path. Thought it was nonsense. Distraction.”

“And now?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He exhales, a sound caught between a sigh and a laugh. “Now I know better.” His gaze flickers down to meet yours, and for a moment, the intensity of his golden eyes makes it hard to breathe. “You’ve shown me that.”

The confession hangs in the air, raw and unguarded in a way that makes your chest ache. You reach up, cupping his face with a gloved hand, and he leans into the touch instinctively, his eyes slipping closed. The tension in his shoulders melts, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable.

“You deserve peace, Geralt,” you say firmly, though your voice trembles slightly under the weight of the moment. “You deserve this.”

He doesn’t answer, but his hand tightens on your waist, his thumb tracing idle patterns against your side. The gesture speaks volumes, even if he doesn’t.

The northern lights ripple overhead, vibrant and unyielding. You tilt your head up to kiss him, slow and soft, savoring the warmth of his lips against yours despite the cold. He kisses you back with a quiet intensity, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. There’s no urgency, no rush—just the two of you, grounding each other in the stillness of the moment.

When you finally pull away, the aurora is beginning to fade, the colors softening into the inky black of night. Geralt watches it with a faint, wistful smile before turning his attention back to you.

“Thank you,” he says simply, the words carrying a depth that makes your throat tighten. He doesn’t need to elaborate. You understand.

✦✦✦✦

For the next week, Lucifer insists he won’t participate. “I have a reputation to uphold,” he declares more than once. But you notice little hints—secret phone calls, the way he eyes the rack of sequined sweaters at a boutique during one of your strolls through the city. Something is brewing.

Meanwhile, you find your own sweater: a bright green monstrosity with blinking reindeer noses. It’s charming in its hideousness, and you can’t wait to see the precinct’s reactions. You expect Lucifer to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t even comment, too preoccupied with whatever scheme is unfolding in his head.

✦✦✦✦

The night of the contest, Lux transforms into a surprisingly festive venue. The bar is draped with garlands, and soft jazz renditions of Christmas carols play in the background. When Lucifer emerges from his penthouse, your jaw nearly hits the floor.

His sweater is an event. Custom-made and impossible to ignore, it’s a red velvet masterpiece adorned with golden devil horns, sequined flames, and glittering stars. LED lights pulse along the edges, and every movement sets off a jazzy rendition of "Santa Baby."

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you say, stifling laughter.

“I never kid about fashion, darling,” he replies, striking a pose.

“What happened to being above all this?”

“If I must endure the indignity of participation,” he says with a smirk, “I’ll do so magnificently.”

✦✦✦✦

The contest is as chaotic as you’d hoped. Chloe is decked out in a knitted sweater with working Christmas lights. Dan jingles with every step in a sweater so covered in ornaments you wonder how he can move. Ella’s sweater features a full nativity scene, complete with a miniature star that actually twinkles. But when you and Lucifer step into the spotlight, the crowd erupts.

He plays it up, spinning you dramatically to show off the coordinated design he somehow convinced you to wear—a matching sweater adorned with tiny velvet flames. His hand lingers at your back as he bows, relishing the cheers.

The two of you easily take first place, a fact Lucifer brags about loudly as the night goes on.

✦✦✦✦

Much later, when the party dwindles to a few stragglers nursing their drinks, you find Lucifer back at the bar. He’s still wearing his over-the-top sweater, the golden horns catching the light as he sips champagne.

“Admit it,” you tease, sliding onto the stool beside him. “You had fun.”

He tilts his head, considering. “I don’t know if ‘fun’ is the word I’d use.”

“Luce.”

He sighs, the corners of his mouth curving into a reluctant smile. “Fine. It wasn’t... entirely dreadful.”

You laugh, nudging him with your shoulder. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He raises his glass, his smirk returning. “Let it be known, though, that this moment of festive indulgence was for the sake of victory. Nothing more.”

Zuko raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“A snowman,” you repeat, crouching to scoop up a handful of snow. “You’ve seriously never built one?”

“No,” he replies flatly. “And I don’t see why we should start now.”

“Because it’s fun,” you say, tossing the snow lightly into the air and catching it. “When’s the last time you did something just for fun?”

Zuko exhales sharply, his brow furrowing. “This is ridiculous.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, stepping closer. “What would Aang say if he saw you refusing to enjoy the snow? He’d probably call it a crime against nature or something.”

That earns you a dry glare, but after a moment, Zuko sighs. “Fine. But if this is some elaborate scheme to make me look stupid…”

“Too late,” you quip, grabbing a handful of snow and starting to roll it into a ball. Zuko mutters something under his breath but crouches beside you.

At first, he watches as you roll the snowball across the ground, the base growing larger with each pass. “You’re just rolling it?” he asks, his tone skeptical.

“That’s how you start,” you say, grinning. “Then you pack it tight.”

Zuko hesitates before scooping up a handful of snow. His movements are stiff and cautious, as if he’s handling something explosive. “Like this?”

“Yeah, but more pressure,” you instruct. “It’s snow, not glass.”

He huffs and presses his hands into the snow, his brow furrowed in concentration. For someone who regularly wields fire, he’s surprisingly meticulous about packing the snow. It’s kind of endearing.

After a while, the two of you manage to stack three uneven snowballs atop one another. Zuko steps back, frowning critically. “It’s… lopsided.”

“It’s perfect,” you counter, brushing snow off your gloves. “Now it just needs a face.”

You gather pebbles for eyes and a crooked twig for a nose, then start sticking them onto the snowman. Zuko watches with his arms crossed again, his skepticism palpable. “This is what people do for fun?”

“Yep,” you say, sticking on the snowman’s mouth with a flourish. “And now… it needs something extra.”

You step back, tilting your head as you study your creation. The curved base, the round body—it reminds you of something. Or someone.

“It looks like Appa,” you declare, grinning.

Zuko snorts softly. “Appa? Really?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t see it.” You point to the snowman’s round shape. “All it needs are some horns and a tail.”

Zuko mutters something about wasting time but crouches to help anyway. He shapes a stubby tail at the back while you add twigs for horns. His hands are sure and steady, and you’re struck by how much effort he’s putting into something so simple.

When you’re done, you step back together to admire your work. The snowman—Appa, you’ve decided—looks ridiculous but lovable, with its lopsided body and crooked grin.

“It’s not terrible,” Zuko admits grudgingly, his golden eyes scanning the snowman. “For a snow bison.”

You grin and nudge his arm. “See? You’ve got a hidden creative side.”

“I don’t have a creative side,” he replies, though the faintest smirk tugs at his lips. “I just followed your instructions.”

“Sure, sure,” you say, laughing. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Your Majesty of Snow Sculpting.”

He huffs, but his ears turn red—not from the cold, you’re certain. The two of you stand in companionable silence for a moment, watching as snowflakes drift lazily from the sky, catching on your snowman’s horns.

When you glance at Zuko, his gaze isn’t on the snowman anymore—it’s on you. The usual intensity in his eyes has softened, replaced by something warmer, quieter. It makes your chest feel lighter, like maybe, just maybe, you’re chipping away at his icy exterior.

“Thanks,” you say softly, nudging his arm again. “For helping.”

Zuko shrugs, but the corner of his mouth lifts in that almost smile you’re starting to recognize. “It wasn’t terrible.”

Dean strides in, carrying a steaming mug in one hand and a bottle of cold medicine in the other. His green eyes scan you critically, but there’s no mocking smirk, no sarcastic comment. He’s wearing his usual uniform of jeans and a faded black T-shirt, but his hair is a little mussed, and there’s a subtle droop in his posture, like he’s been pacing or running errands you don’t remember asking for.

“Well, you’re alive,” he says, his voice a blend of dry humor and something softer. “Barely. Look like crap, though.”

“Feel worse,” you croak, voice barely above a whisper. It’s hard to say more; even talking feels like a monumental effort.

Dean chuckles low, shaking his head as he places the mug on the nightstand and sets the cold medicine beside it. “Yeah, figured. Got your meds, some soup—don’t ask what’s in it; just eat it—and, uh, entertainment.” He gestures vaguely toward the TV on the dresser. You glance over to see a cheesy Christmas movie already queued up. Twinkling lights, fake snow, and actors way too cheerful for your current state fill the screen.

“Is that Holiday in Handcuffs?” you ask, voice barely audible.

Dean shrugs nonchalantly, but you can see the faint flush creeping up his neck. “I remember you said once it was your favorite holiday movie. Figured it couldn’t hurt. Not like you’re watching Die Hard in this condition.”

You let out a weak laugh that quickly dissolves into a coughing fit. Dean’s immediately at your side, placing a steadying hand on your back as you double over. His palm is broad and warm, the pressure grounding you until the coughing subsides.

“Jesus, take it easy,” he mutters, his tone gruff but not unkind. He pulls a box of tissues closer and thrusts them into your hand. “You hack up a lung, and I’m not cleaning it up.”

You wipe your nose and sink back into the pillows, utterly spent. Dean unscrews the cap on the cold medicine, his expression twisting in irritation as it resists. “Stupid thing,” he grumbles, shaking it like the lid might magically pop off. Finally, with a satisfying click, he hands it over, careful not to spill.

“Bottoms up,” he says, watching you like a hawk. You grimace as the thick, syrupy liquid slides down your throat, and Dean snorts. “What, too fancy for cherry flavor?”

“It’s awful,” you manage, wincing.

“You’ll live,” he retorts, grabbing the mug of soup and placing it in your hands. The steam rises in delicate swirls, but when you take a sip, the taste is... underwhelming. It’s warm, sure, but there’s no seasoning, no flavor beyond the faint hint of chicken broth.

Dean notices your hesitation and narrows his eyes. “Don’t even start. I followed the recipe. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” you rasp.

“Okay, so I skipped the part with the spices. Sue me,” he says, crossing his arms defensively. “Not like I keep a spice rack in Baby’s trunk.”

Despite everything, you smile. The soup isn’t great, but it’s warm, and it’s Dean. He could’ve left you to fend for yourself, but instead, he’s here, fumbling his way through what has to be his least favorite role—caretaker.

As the afternoon drags on, Dean refuses to leave your side for long. He keeps himself busy, fussing with blankets, refilling your mug with tea, and grumbling every time you so much as sniffle. When you return from the bathroom, you find Dean, perched on the edge of the bed, stabs at his phone with one finger, muttering something about "Christmas movies" and "Sam's stupid suggestions."

“What are you doing?” you croak, your voice rougher than gravel.

He barely glances up. “Finding something less... sparkly. Seriously, how does anyone enjoy this crap?” he mutters, flipping through the options. “Where’s the explosions? The car chases? It’s all snowflakes and—oh, look, another goddamn mistletoe scene.”

He makes a dramatic gagging noise as another cheesy romantic gesture plays out on the screen. “This is a no-chick-flick zone, remember? Rule number one.”

You muster a weak smile, though it quickly turns into a cough. Dean tosses the phone aside and hands you a tissue like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand brushes yours for a moment, warm and steady, and you catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Maybe concern, maybe embarrassment—hard to tell with Dean.

“Is that why you’re still here?” you rasp, dabbing at your nose. “Cause this feels suspiciously chick-flicky to me.”

Dean snorts, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s defending himself from the accusation. “Look, you’re sick. Can’t have you wandering around half-dead infecting everybody else—especially me. This is survival, not sentiment.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, raising an eyebrow. “So it’s not because you secretly enjoy the sappy holiday romance?”

His jaw tightens, and he glares at the screen as if it personally insulted him. “Okay, first of all, no. Second, I’m not staying here ‘cause of the movie. I’m staying ‘cause someone’s gotta make sure you don’t die from lack of fluids.”

You laugh weakly, though it fades into another cough. Dean sighs, running a hand down his face. “Fine,” he mutters, leaning back against the headboard. “Maybe I’m breaking my own rule. But don’t get used to it, okay? This is a one-time deal. You’re sick. That’s the only reason I’m letting this slide.”

Your smile softens as you glance at him, his arms crossed, boots propped on the bed frame, a grumble on his lips but undeniable warmth in his eyes. “Thanks, Dean,” you whisper.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Just don’t tell Sam. He’ll never let me live it down.” 

Hours later, as the sky outside darkens, Dean’s still there. He’s stretched out in the chair beside your bed, his legs sprawled out and boots resting against the edge of the mattress. The TV flickers in the dim light, a cheesy Christmas movie filling the room with soft chatter, though it’s clear his focus isn’t on the screen. His gaze keeps drifting toward you every time you shift or let out a quiet cough, his features softening just slightly in that way he’d never admit to.

“You’re not half bad at this,” you murmur, your voice raspier than usual, the words barely audible over the sound of the TV.

Dean’s head snaps toward you, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. He snorts, leaning forward and planting his elbows on his knees. “Don’t get used to it,” he says, the usual edge in his tone softened by something warmer. “I’m not about to start knitting you sweaters or reading bedtime stories.”

“Shame,” you manage, offering him a faint smile. “You rock the whole ‘caretaker’ vibe.”

He rolls his eyes, shifting in the chair like he’s trying to get comfortable but failing miserably. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Chuckles,” he mutters, though the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying the grin he’s trying to suppress. “Next time you get sick, I’m calling Cas. Let him deal with the mucus and misery.”

Your weak laugh quickly morphs into a cough, and Dean is on his feet before you’ve even finished, hovering with an uneasy blend of concern and awkwardness. He rubs the back of his neck, muttering something about getting you more water, but instead, he pulls the chair closer to the bed, then changes his mind again and sinks onto the edge of the mattress.

“You’re gonna break that damn chair if you keep flopping around in it,” you tease weakly, watching as he settles beside you. His presence feels grounding, steady, even if he pretends not to notice the way you relax as he leans back against the headboard.

“Flopping? You’re delirious,” he shoots back, though he doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stretches his legs out, crossing his ankles and resting one arm along the back of the bed frame like he belongs there. “This doesn’t mean I’m staying,” he adds after a beat. “I’m just... making sure you don’t roll over and die in your sleep or something.”

You don’t call him out on the obvious lie. Instead, you let your hand rest on the edge of the blanket, and after a long moment of silence, you feel the weight of his hand brush against yours. It’s tentative, uncharacteristically soft, and when he doesn’t pull away, neither do you.

The bunker grows quieter as the night stretches on, the low hum of the TV blending with the sound of your slowed breathing. You drift off, comforted not just by the warmth of his hand but by the steady, undeniable presence of Dean Winchester at your side. And as sleep claims you, you know that badass reputation or not, Dean is more than capable of caring for the people he loves. Right now, that person is you.