#9dayscwc2016

 He wanted to step away from the mirror and leave the strange figure behind, but then he glimpsed a fast flick of a fluffy white tail behind him. Their cat, Pampuria, has sneaked into the room. She meowed. Apparently, she agreed with the sceptical attitude he held towards the event.

She crept between his feet. With loud purrs, she danced between them, and some white fur stuck to his trouser legs. Oh, of course she had to be an additional inconvenience to the already tiresome evening.

But the feline was also, undeniably, a distraction from the thoughts running around in his head. Q smiled. He squatted down to scratch her ears. She waved her tail in the air contentedly.  

“I know you wish me to go no more than I do, Pampuria, but I have to,” he explained with fondness he saved for no one but James and their furry companion. He talked to her like that often, especially when James was off due to King and Country’s business. “Commitments a person of my rank and status has to keep. Besides, James is waiting for me, you know. He’s left earlier to help the host with preparations, old mates they are. I cannot do that to them.”

Q rose. With a subtle move of his right leg, he prompted Pampuria to run to the kitchen along with him. The Lecters had a dog, so he omitted cleaning the trousers for its uselessness.

“Your dinner is in the bowl, it should be enough. I’ve poured you some milk, too,” he glanced at the more or less empty bowl, “but I’m afraid that’s all we have. I will be back by two, I presume. Or later.”

He wouldn’t be so sure as to guarantee anything; the party may as well go on till the morning. That depended on the amount of alcoholic beverages and revelry from the other guests’ side, and knowing them all, it will both be high.

Pampuria meowed again, and pattered to the food bowls. She did not touch any of it, merely eyed the contents. With a good-bye, Q finally continued to the foyer.  

 He spared one last look in the smaller mirror. Its frame, lavishly adorned with a patina of faux dinge reminded him of James, who had been overexcited about the party. The mirror belonged to him long before the flat became theirs.

Q’s wild hair couldn’t be contained any more, and the bow tie would get askew with every move anyway, so he concluded his looks were acceptable at it is. His hand mechanically reached for a scarf lurking at him from the hanger—but of course, there was no reason to take it. He was not heading out, to the freezing cold and heavy snowfall. He grabbed his keys.

He opened the front door only to slam it shut again the next instant. He locked it, just to be certain, and checked his Omega watch. It told him that it was 8:56, high time to appear at the party. It was starting at nine, in a flat directly above theirs.

Q walked the way to the stone staircase with old white wooden bannisters, across the tiled floor. He has just made the first step when the door to the other flat opened and closed with the clinking of keys. He was not the last one to come, then.

He came to a stop and turned around. Dr Barbara Corner, the toxicologist, walked to him in her clopping black stilettos, wearing a smile on her face. Apart from that, she was wearing a plain, black robe that brushed against the floor with every step and did wonders to her figure.

He could appreciate intelligent company on the way. It was a few days since he came out of his nest and visited her to enjoy a cuppa and an open, intelligent conversation. “Good evening, Barbara. You look wonderful,” Q complimented her. He meant it.

“Good evening, Andrew. You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, and the smile widened. There was a disconcerting flash in her glacial blue eyes. “How’s Pamps doing?”

Oh yes, oh yes. His poor, old, dying cat was always in the centre of everybody’s interest. Q did not know whether she worried about her, or there was something else to it.

“So far so good, thank you. I think she won’t give up as easily. She’s practically immortal,” he chuckled, and it was partially true. She celebrated her fifteenth birthday this year. But it also hurt. He loved her as his own child. James had rescued her from the hold of his villainous step-brother those years ago in Morocco, and since then, she has been living with the two of them, finally feeling loved.

Barbara noticed the sudden sadness in his expression, so she changed the subject as they walked up the first flight of stairs.

 They talked about the project she had helped him all the way to the flat. As soon as they approached the door, their thoughts drifted elsewhere. The image of the party became real again.

Q brought himself to knock on the door. His hand was trembling, imperceptibly to Barbara.

Having had that pointless conversation, Q momentarily forgot about the nervousness. As they both ran out of meaningful topics to discuss and were standing in silence, waiting for someone to open, the slight, unflagging fear oozing from the Lecters’ flat through the gap above the threshold enveloped him again. He fidgeted in that jacket that did not quite belong on his body.

The door swung open a few second later. Q breathed in relief when he saw the familiar blond standing behind it, clutching it with one hand.

“Good evening, James,” Dr Corner greeted the agent with yet another smile and no visible trace of concern whatsoever. Nevertheless, Q knew it was there, in the corner of her eye. She paid the place respect as well as everyone who has seen what they have. It was dangerous, he just could not fathom why.

Perhaps it was the antlers, strange paintings, weapons, and many other creepy statuettes placed everywhere, hanging on the dark paperhanging covering every wall in the foyer and living room, or the sterile coldness of the steel kitchen and the sharp knives laid ostentatiously on the counter. If he did not know better, he would say it looked like a serial killer’s lair. Though, he knew Hannibal Lecter worked as a renowned psychiatrist, and his husband was ex-FBI who now had a part-time job in an animal shelter—which he did out of the goodness of his heart, he had told.

This sort of an eerie atmosphere that gave one goose bumps upon even approaching it reigned the place. But apparently, he and Barbara were the only ones who thought there was something off about the flat. He stopped mentioning any suspicious thoughts about it to James right after he had said Q was simply being paranoid because he worked for an intelligence agency.

“Good evening and a happy New Year, Barbara,” said James and stepped away from the door to let her and his partner inside. “Andrew, my darling.”

As Q walked by, James pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. Despite parting two hours ago, laying his eyes on Q conjured a heartfelt smile on James’ face. Q smiled back, it was impossible to resist, but it wasn’t credible. Not even James’ presence couldn’t put him to ease.

The trio continued to the living room, where the rest of the guests were sitting on the sofa upholstered with black leather and matching armchairs, occasionally sipping on red wine from tall, thin glasses. They were all dressed in equally elegant, shining robes as though they were going to the opera. Q mentally laughed at the fake glitz with which people like them wheeled into Dr Lecter’s favour since the day he had moved in this house in Notting Hill. They could smell the wealth and genteel that radiated from his persona, and wanted to get close to him, without trying to peer under the person suit and seeing what truly is inside. The danger. Q was wiser than that. He went to his parties only out of courtesy, and his love for James, who was thick as thieves with both Hannibal and his husband.  

James was no different case, really. He has been helping the couple with the preparations, brought hundreds of pounds worth of drinks, and crawled up the Lecters’ arse in many other ways possible. But if keeping them company was what he liked to do in his free time, besides keeping Q company, and kept him occupied when he was not on a mission, Q was very liberal about his actions. He has learnt that forbidding James Bond from doing something does not have a point anyway; it can only spur him to do it out of spite.

 Mrs Caldwell said hello to Q. He returned to corporeality in his thoughts and greeted her back.

Then he gave James a proper look. He, of course, saw what he had put on before he left, but he had had no time to really look and fully appreciate the sight in front of his eyes. A bespoke navy blue dinner jacket with a white shirt underneath it, and a bow tie of colour that matched the suit nicely outlined his well-defined chest and brought out his icy blue eyes. A pair of black slacks was snug on his strong legs. Saying that he looked exquisite would be an understatement. Clothes like these suited him, unlike Q, more than well. He was once again reminded why he has fallen for this impossible man in the first place.

He reluctantly tore his eyes away from James, and politely greeted everyone else: a couple of lawyers from China, who lived opposite the Lecters; the family from ground level; Mrs Caldwell. Samantha, the only child in the house, was playing with Encephalitis the dog on the floor. The parents did not seem to mind.

Hannibal Lecter and his husband were nowhere to be seen. They were probably making some final preparations in the kitchen. Q’s senses were a little calmed by that, but not enough for him to relax. Not even after he was offered a glass of 2004 Red Bordeaux, and the sweet taste of the wine pleasured his taste buds.

 Both men emerged from the kitchen a moment later. They carried large, silver trays full of various kinds of colourful, mouth-watering appetisers, and Q, despite himself, realised how hungry he actually was. He ate his last meal at two o’clock in the afternoon.

He recognised many meaty foods, as typical for Dr Lecter and his parties, and he was worried for a minute. He was vegetarian, and he would not eat that should he starve to death. That was another regard he and Dr Corner shared—their taste and distaste in foods.

Although, to be completely honest, he would not eat that even if he ate meat. He did not trust the food as well as the cooks—without really knowing why.

Hannibal and Will laid the trays on the large mahogany table, in between a ghastly, crooked, antler-like candelabrum and a bowl of exotic fruits and leaves with what looked like a golden egg in the middle of it. In another moment, Will was excusing himself and returning to where he had emerged from. Not a while after, he came back with two other smaller plates, on which foods more likeable to Q’s appetite were arranged.

“Please, help yourselves to a bite to eat,” he said, locking eyes with everyone in the room. Q had to wink repeatedly to shake off the discomfort of the intense gaze.

Will’s eyes lingered on his husband. He gave him a negligible smile, and then he popped a piece of honeydew melon with prosciutto and almond in his mouth. At least the meat looked liked prosciutto.

Hannibal lifted his glass of wine in the air to catch everyone’s attention. Those who were sitting rose to their feet, mimicking the host’s gesture with the glass. Q’s arm moved up automatically, without his thinking. “Bon appétit, my friends,” said Hannibal. “Enjoy the party, and your last hours of 2030.”

That couldn’t go without a chuckle coming from Q’s mouth. He sipped at the wine once more and stepped to the table. He looked at the vegetable-filled champignons and the little, grilled peppers with cheese on the first plate. Which should he taste first, if at all?

“Try the mushroom first, then the pepper, Andrew,” offered Will Lecter. “Those are the most delicious thing in here.”

For once, Q will trust him. There could be nothing wrong with a vegetable hors d’oeuvre, correct?

“Could she be working on a case she hasn’t told you about?” Kara wondered. She glanced at the men helping their mother with final preps for the dinner.

“Perhaps,” Alex hesitated. “As for aliens, there is nothing the DEO wouldn’t be aware of. But what if she—?”

“Don’t worry, Alex, she’ll come,” she tried to comfort her with a hand on her shoulder and a sincere smile. “I know she will. And besides, what do I have my hearing for?”

Kara got an idea. If there were a fortuitous event for NCPD to intervene in, she would have found out by sirens or alarms or even the sounds of bullets flying through the air in high speed. She crossed the room, opened the balcony door, and walked outside. She listened.

Mostly, she could hear people in their homes, television programmes, riding cars, the usual rush of National City traffic. There were animal sounds too, in the background, and the perpetual hum of electricity, factories, working people. And behind that, Kara heard the familiar screeching of police hooters.

It was insignificant, though. Just one car alone in the outskirts of the city, chasing after a petty thief or someone like that. There was no danger, for once. It was Christmas, the time of peace and miracles, after all.

“Nothing. No case of emergency,” she reported. The others have begun to worry as well, seeing her look out for whatever she was looking for at the balcony. They inevitably thought Supergirl mode meant trouble and danger approaching.

But then she said it was no case of emergency, which was a good omen. However, something was definitely going on, and it probably involved Alex’s detective friend who still has not come yet.

“What’s going on? Can we eat dinner already?” Mon-El chimed in with another one of his wannabe innocent and relieving comments confirmed by a loud growl of his insatiate stomach.

“No, we have to wait for our friend Maggie to arrive and then we can eat dinner,” Winn explained patiently, although he was starving as well.

“Oh.”

James pulled the turkey from the oven, and a cloud of steam and spicy scent of roast escaped it. The kitchen smelled wonderfully, like Christmas and tranquillity. Kara thought he looked truly great in a white shirt tight against his muscular form and striped oven gloves.

Then she caught the sound of steps on the stairs that could only belong to one person walking to one place.

“And we don’t have to wait for much longer, because she’s coming!” she said enthusiastically. She and everyone else had to pretend they did not know about it and not walk to the door to open for her early. Maggie still did not know Kara was Supergirl.  

Alex needed to smile at the mere mention of her girlfriend, and more at the fact she was all right, late probably because of the traffic. She was relieved.

More so when she heard four firm knocks. Kara wanted to go open as she has every time, but Alex stopped her. She was the one to greet Maggie Sawyer.

It was her flat too.

When she saw her standing in the doorway, dressed in an actual fucking dress and beaming widely with that adorable smile of hers, Alex’s knees suddenly felt so weak, and her heart stuttered.

“Maggie—you look stunning,” she complimented her gorgeous appearance, almost unable to speak. She could say nothing more, though, and she could do nothing more than to give her a hug, although all she wished for was to pull her in for a deep kiss.

“So do you, beauty,” Maggie whispered as she held Alex, dressed in a simple deep blue dress herself, close. Her hands were full of paper bags clinging to Alex’s back; some of them were sharp enough to hurt. “Apologies I’m late, I had to investigate few stores for selling the perfect late minute presents.”

That was to everyone, not just her.

Alex pulled away before the hug was awkwardly long for friends. She told her to put her presents to the others, and Kara and everyone else wished her merry Christmas and welcomed her to the family.

Because that was what they were, a family of aliens and agents and reporters and life saviours.

It was drawing near eight. Time to eat. Time to celebrate. Time to enjoy being in the presence of one’s closest, with no evil extraterrestrial life forms threatening to destroy Earth or enslave its inhabitants.

J’onn took the turkey. Winn took the potatoes and vegetables. Mon-El took the two fruit pies, trying hard not to taste them; he was sure they were the most delicious thing of it all, and wanted to know. James took the drinks, Kara and Mother the glasses. They put all the food on the festively set table, and took their assigned seats.

Mrs Danvers and J’onn sat in the honourable front chairs, while the two couples and Winn with Mon-El (Mike for the evening) occupied the central seats, always vis-à-vis each other. Mrs Danvers carved the turkey, and everyone took a piece, just as a dollop of vegetables.

Before they got down to eating the dinner, there was a toast, just like on Thanksgiving. They did not say what they were thankful for but what they hoped of 2017 to bring. Everyone had one New Year’s resolution to pronounce, and after that, time for a carol came.

But before singing the song, Alex had something to say.

And they listened to every word, this time with no interruptions. If she weren’t sure about something before, now she gained confidence with every word spoken, especially with the support of Kara and Mother.

At the end of her speech, Maggie said they finally could kiss under the mistletoe just like James and Kara did every time they found themselves beneath it, and everyone laughed.

It was not that hard, after all. Alex was and always will be a part of the family, no matter what. They accepted her, who she was, the relationship between her and Maggie. Because sometimes girls like girls and it’s okay. It’s beautiful.

The eight people sang Good King Wenceslas (seven, actually; Mon-El wasn’t familiar with the lyrics) as if nothing happened, toasted, and cut the roast turkey. It was delicious as ever.

“You’re not being serious!” grumbled Regina, quickly striding after Emma and Henry through the snow that will surely leave unpleasant marks on her boots. She did not like snow.

But in fact yes, they were being serious, and Snow and David both throwing a snowball proved it more than clearly.

“Come on, Regina, we need to get away from saving worlds and have some pure fun with the children!” the princess shouted back, and prodded Neal into gathering a scoop of snow and throwing it at the nearest person, who happened to be his dad.

The cold balls landed on Regina’s (expensive) black coat. But no, she was calm. She was different from the person she used to be before. All she did about it, the only revenge she would ever desire, was shaping a large snowball herself and commencing a battle they would all regret afterwards.

She took it. Threw it. However, it did not fly toward the Charmings, no. It multiplied to the number 19, and went to every place someone stood on.

It hit everyone. Not with too much force, because the small children might come to harm, but precisely in the face.

“You used magic, that’s not fair!” shouted Belle, dusting the coldness off her face, just as everyone else.

No, it definitely wasn’t fair, but she wasn’t the one to come up with the preposterous idea of sledging and snowballing and building snowmen.

Regina opened her mouth to say a quick remark, but Emma suddenly appeared in her field of vision with a frown scarring her forehead.

“One rule – no magic,” she said. As though snowball battles had rules.

“Fine,” muttered Regina. She could not argue with that determined face.

She even apologised.

However, that short time out did not last for very long, and it most certainly did not pay off to Emma. Standing still with no snowball to defend oneself with available was highly unwise at the moment.

Why is that so? Killian stealthily approached her from behind in the meantime, rewarding his dear girlfriend with an armful of snow. It got beneath her scarf and the collar of her coat, covered all of her blonde hair that stuck out of her red-and-white knitted hat, and made her shiver all over.

How could he even accomplish that with a hook in place of one hand?

But don’t think for a second Regina was spared. Robin and Roland, together with Snow White, teamed up against her for what she has done – it ended up just as coldly and undignified as the attack on Emma.

They all smiled and laughed.

Killian maybe put his arms on Emma’s shoulders and said sorry with a kiss on the cheek, but that still did not make up for anything. Nothing forgiven.

“If you’re going to tell me not to use magic again, you’re the one who gets hit next,” Regina said to Emma, looking her straight in the eye. She indeed stood close; she could have taken advantage of the situation. “Because that wasn’t fair.”

Even if it were Robin and his son, those she loved the most.

“Okay, I won’t,” she responded soberly. She, though, bent down, and threw snow at her with a triumphant grimace spreading across her face. Then she glanced at Killian.

“Don’t use magic,” he warned her instead of Emma, grasping the message immediately. He even raised a finger in emphasis. Clever Emma.

 Hannibal parked their car right in the centre, after he bought a ticket. He has found a spot near Maria-Theresien Platz.

“You must live, Will,” he told him when getting off, sensing the reluctance radiating from him. Yes, he must live. And that began here.

He got off the car as well. For the first time in a while, he took a deep breath of the sharp winter air that burnt his nostrils as he inhaled. The wind was no lighter than the Alpine; it winnowed his hair in all directions. He felt the need to wrap himself up in his coat and scarf tighter. But he couldn’t.

Hannibal locked the car with a beep. He looked round himself, eyes narrowed.

The square was unusually busy for a Wednesday – but then again, it was one of the places that drawn tourists the most for its abundant Christmas market famous all over the world. There were families, couples, friends, all tootling around, observing, chatting, buying decorations or sweets, drinking punch.

There were also armed policemen, after the Berlin attacks. Yes, they had heard about that. No, Hannibal definitely had said nothing about eating terrorists killing innocent people instead of putting them to prison, if they were captured and dealt with at all. Will tried not to look at them, not to raise any suspicion. But what could ordinary Austrian policemen know. Nothing.

He could recognise several different languages, too. German, mostly, but he caught a snippet of a dialogue between two French people and heard Russian from somewhere behind them. A group of English tourists just passed their car. There were also many people speaking in various Slavic tongues, which Will could not know, but Hannibal surely would.

(He did. They were Polish and Czech or Slovak, he informed him. He was not sure of those two for the similarity of the languages, he informed him. Will did not care.)

“Come on,” Hannibal prompted him by putting a hand on the small of his back. He was used to that by now, touches. In public. If he were gentle an unobtrusive.

The hand lingered for a little longer. Will could feel the spot warm. He told himself to relax and at least put on a feigned smile for the audience.

The almost visible Christmas spirit filling the air penetrated his body to the bones with every step toward the first punch stand, and helped him significantly. The incredible smells of foods and drinks wafting from all sides even more so.

“The day is all yours, Will. Do not hesitate to buy whatever strikes your mind, if it is a pointless trinket or a kilogram of sweets with too much sugar you know I would strongly disapprove of. You deserve it,” Hannibal said, and it was unlike him more than anything he had ever said before. “Just for today.”

Will got an idea – and for the first time, he felt excitement about being in Vienna, for he did have a general idea of what he could find there. And what Hannibal disapproved of.

The fear retreated to his subconsciousness; nonetheless, it was omnipresent, perpetual. It won’t go away.

Yet somehow, “Spoiling me, are you? Fattening me up with sugar so you could shove me in the oven and make a roast of me?” Will joked, and earnestly laughed. He was painfully aware he was playing with fire, because he knew what he was alluding to, yet he could not help himself. That sentence was straightforward yelling make a cannibalistic joke á la Hansel and Gretel, you know you want to. And he couldn’t shut it up.

Dark jokes were a part of their eternal game.  

“Yes, because that is all I desire, my dear.”

Will returned to the accustomed tense state. At that moment, only God knew what was on Hannibal’s mind; he pronounced the response in absolute seriousness. Will dared not to look him in the eyes, fearing of what might reflect in them. He laughed, and watched Hannibal’s mouth twitch into a smile as well.  

“Anything, you say?” he asked as he came to senses. It was hard to think of what he might want. Everything and nothing.

“Indeed,” he affirmed, looking at each stand’s goods himself. Nothing seemed to have caught his attention for long. “But keep on mind there still are many other places we are to visit later.”

Even so, a promise was a promise.

When they approached a stand selling kitschy glass ornaments, he decided they had to have that one shaped like a sitting golden retriever to decorate the bundle of spruce branches in a ceramic vase Hannibal had brought as substitute for a proper tree. And since Hannibal had said they had had enough of money to spend, he took one proud silver stag as well. It reminded him of Abigail.

Hannibal did not stay behind. He bought some incense at a stand near the Kunsthistorische Museum. Old memories, he said. He purchased the finest Chinese green tea, because the shop in the village nearest to their habitat had only sacheted one that tasted like dust and fustiness. And when he set foot near one of the stands with piles of home-made bratwursts, he actually engaged in (rather long) conversation with the butcher in fluent German.

Will did not understand much of it, but from what he caught, they were talking about the right spices and what parts of certain animals were the best to make the most savoury sausages.

For a moment there, he wondered whether Hannibal talked about animals or it were metaphors created by his twisted mind he had fed him and his colleagues for so goddamn long.

So much for inconspicuousness.

The worries hidden in the back of his mind began to creep into his thoughts once again. He did not like it whatsoever.

He stepped closer. “Let’s just go, Hannibal. I want to go,” he whispered, putting it as subtly as he could, although the rising trepidation was still audible in his voice. Only he could hear it.

Hannibal apologised to the butcher, said few last words, and bought four bratwursts of two different kinds. He did not blame Will for wanting to go. He knew that he needed time, that he felt strongly uncomfortable still.

They moved on, leaving other customers greedy after sausages to their business.

A woman with a basket of red roses suddenly appeared from nowhere, and crossed their path. She muttered something very fast, attempting to coerce them to take a flower. It appeared innocent – except she would want money right after she would shove it in their hands. Will knew, Hannibal told. Pathetic.

He had told him to never take the rose, too. Nonetheless, now facing it himself, he did not hesitate to take the reddest of roses he could find. He promptly handed the woman a 2€ coin. Will thought it for foolish, and wondered what made Hannibal change his mind so suddenly – until he was being handed the flower with a heartfelt smile.

“For you, Will.” He blushed. Honestly, blushed. He was quite wordless at the moment.

He accepted it, and smelled it as an automatic gesture upon receiving a flower. It did not smell like roses normally did at all. It was winter; it was raised in a greenhouse, obviously.

“Thank you, Hannibal. Not just for this,” he waved the rose in the air, “for, you know, listening to me.” Because frankly, the rose was more of a nuisance than a pleasure. He had nowhere to put it, and it will probably die before they return home.

Did he call the cabin home, now? He did not know what it was. What this life was. Something not yet labelled, undiscovered.

Hannibal gazed into his eyes more intensely; it made Will slightly uncomfortable. He has gotten used to those eyes, but a minute of ceaseless eye contact was a bit too much to bear. His brain told him to look away, look away, look away.

He did not.

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice was so soft. He actually found himself being fond of how his name sounded rolling on his tongue. “Do you not realise I would do anything for you?”

He did. Oh, he did, and it hurt. He could not describe why, exactly.

“Let’s just go somewhere else,” Will said after a second of silence. He evaded the answer to that question on purpose. He feared what answering it might change.

He began to walk toward the road in front of them, and that felt like a stab to Hannibal’s heart, even if he did not intend to do that.

Hannibal caught up with him, and together they walked to the city hall where the biggest and brightest market took place. Will did not allow Hannibal to slip his hand into his this time. He was afraid.

 On the way, they got hungry. It were hours since breakfast, after all. Hannibal knew everything, tasted everything, and Will was a case of the opposite. Everything was quite new to him – Christmas markets in New Orleans or Washington really were not the same.

He wished to try a bite of everything, once the anxiety allowed him to relax again.

Being familiar with all tastes of Vienna, Hannibal resorted to a stand with steaming baked potatoes that informed everyone of the place of their origin by fifty metres, that delicious the smell was. His grandmother used to make him the same dish when he was little, and he has always eaten it when visiting the markets to honour her memory. He told Will that too, this morning.

The same stand also sold Maroni, baked chestnuts. Will had those before, so he obtained a cornet to occasionally steal a piece from while looking for something richer to eat.

Upon an offer of a piece, Hannibal confessed he hated baked chestnuts. That was a first – mark the day, everyone. Really, there were only few things on this world that man would not eat – cup soups or frozen vegetables, for instance – and learning that specialty was among them made Will laugh nearly as much as the roast joke.

“If you really hate baked chestnuts, then I dare you to eat one.”

Will meant it, the look in his eyes told so. Oh, how the roles have reversed.

“No, Will, I am not eating one,” he refused. He was stubborn. So was Will. This could go on for a very long time.

They slowly moved along the rows of stands, carefully dodging other visitors. Will sighted a place where they sold large pretzels of all flavours. The pizza ones looked especially appalling; he would buy one only to have Hannibal complain about his feeding habits of a typical American. Takeaway and fast food snacks above a proper hot meal as he had, he would probably say.  

But first, “Yes, Hannibal, you are, and I dare you to. You have to.”

When he received only something as an exasperated pout, Will tried different tactics. “Not a while ago you said – I quote – I would do anything for you, Will. That includes eating a damn chestnut when I tell you to.”

He was actually surprised with himself for an unexpected ability to say that with a solemn face.

Well, that was a bulletproof argument. Hannibal seemed to have no other option than to accept his fate and put that thing in his mouth obediently. He reached for the cornet in Will’s hand, and pulled one nut out.

“Why do you hate them, actually?” Will wanted to know. He took one as well, and made ridiculous yum-yum sounds while chewing solely to annoy him.

“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “I haven’t the faintest idea.” Then, he put the chestnut in his mouth, and bit. The look on his face spoke for itself. A wide smile reached Will’s eyes and beyond.

Will waited for him to swallow, and only then proceeded forward, to the pretzel stand. Hannibal followed hot on his heels with one word “Satisfied?”

The answer to that was simple. “I will be after I buy this giant pizza pretzel and a sugar apple on a stick.”

On the floor among the agents’ legs, there lay several large sacks of dog food, some biscuits, and toys. All those things, and a cheque for £6,000, represented belated holiday gifts for stray, mistreated, or abandoned dogs and the altruistic people who took care of them 365 days in a year.

It was no random shelter, though; it was the one affiliated to the secret service, where only the luckiest, nicest, most fearless dogs could find a home from where they were later – after absolving a thorough training – distributed to the agency, had they not found an owner sooner.

The cab plodded on the cobbles of busy streets, making everyone rock from side to side. Eggsy faced the floor, and held Harry’s hand. Everyone refrained from talking for the most of the time.

Eggsy would bring JB too, so he could meet other friends than the stuffed corpse of Mr Pickle, but Harry has stopped him from doing so. He argued that, unlike the visit per se, wouldn’t be a bright idea. For reasons.

Besides, once a recruit became a knight, bringing their dogs to work was no longer allowed (unless granted exceptional permission by the king, which did not happen now).

“Thanks for doing this.” It rolled in his mind for long enough.

He looked up. Roxy’s face shone with pleasure of doing something good for the mute friends, and Percival currently texted someone on his mobile – or kept in check with one of the abroad missions, who could tell. More like the latter, since he frowned.  

“I appreciate it, really.” He smiled minutely. His best friend returned the smile. Then, she leant over her uncle’s shoulder, and whispered something that deepened the man’s frown. It did concern a mission. A friend’s mission going tits up, apparently.

That was another reason why was visiting the dogs a good idea. They could all forget for a little while.

“Of course, darling,” Harry replied in need to fill the silence, and in need to raise his partner’s spirit. He turned his head to him. Both Eggsy and the other agents were used to the occasional terms of endearment among the two them by now. “I think we need the dogs more than they need us.”

That they did. Arthur was honest, at least.

The rest of the ride was accompanied by intermittent but steady updates on a Kingsman-Statesman cooperative mission in DC regarding set-off bombs in the White House and attempted assassination of the President (if it were up to them, they wouldn’t save the man, but as agents, they were obliged to do so). The atmosphere was dense.

 Favourably, the traffic was relatively smooth, so they arrived to their destination in approximately twenty minutes. They were welcomed by a strong blow of wind in their faces that sent shivers down their spine even though they were born and raised by windy English winters.

The owner, Mrs Creston, a corpulent lady in her best years, awaited them at the threshold. Seeing the familiar faces, she smiled, but her eyes were full of concern. Taking care of so many poor animals was an immense responsibility.

“Good morning!” she greeted them. When she sighted the bags of food and toys they were pulling out of the cars, the cheerful voice powered stronger by all the Christmas spirit within her whispered miracles existed after all.

She was unaware of the circumstances of the visit and the glum spark behind the accustomed smiles. “So good to see you all here, come on in!”

Mrs Creston opened the main door for the Kingsmen. They could hear deep, throaty barking of older, bigger dogs and pups’ high woofing in the background. The dogs knew of their arrival sooner than the owner’s husband, who has just returned from the backyard. It conjured a shy but sincere smile on Eggsy’s face.

Mr Creston shook Harry’s hand. “Good morning, Mr Hart! I see you’ve brought your colleagues – the more the merrier, aye?”

“Indeed.”

“And we also brought lots of gifts,” added Roxy. She held two 10kg packets of pork and turkey granules – impressive for such a young, fragile girl. But of course, she was no more fragile than a gun she killed and wounded her enemies with.

“Come, come, we don’t wanna waste your precious time, aye, Mathilda? Our doggies can’t wait to say hello to such honoured guests, especially on this day,” he said, face bright, traces of Scottish accent shining through his kind words. “And give me something, lass, you’re not carrying all that yourself.”

He took one of the dog food sacks from Roxy, who thanked him for it, and followed by his wife, he walked through an open door to the cotes; the agents hot on their heels.

It was the second time Eggsy has visited the shelter, and yet that one thought crossed his mind again: Mr Creston was bald, Scottish, and round Merlin’s age, and as far as he knew, they went along rather well – couldn’t they be related, somehow? Siblings, or cousins?

Neither of them would tell, of course, and that will bug him forever. Or at least until he hacks some files and reads it in them.  

Neither of the dogs was outside, and all of the cotes were occupied by pets of all ages, sizes, and colours. There even were three cats at the back of the room that arrived sometime between this and the last visit.

“We are so thankful for these gifts, truly, you can’t imagine,” Mrs Creston said. Sincere thankfulness reflected in every part of her. They might have had enough money, yet every extra pound was salutary. “We appreciate any support whenever an opportunity occurs, even more so when it’s Christmas.”

“We are always glad to be of help, Mathilda. You know that,” Harry replied warmly, familiarly, assuring.

As the next thing, he asked Percival for a pack of biscuits (safe for dogs!). All of his attention was focused on the furry friends from now on; he loved them as much as his young partner and it was apparent.

It was quite adorable, in its way, how such a badass director of a spy organisation who has survived a bullet to the head and several more injuries lethal to a normal person could suddenly change into a soft daddy offering a biscuit to a poodle puppy. It seemed so to Eggsy, anyway. And to Roxy too, a little bit.

The dog excitedly accepted it from him, and ate it in a twinkling. Of course, its neighbours began to claw at the bars and sniff around for a goody to eat. They wanted one too, so Tristan and Percival gave them, while Eggsy and Roxy spoiled the older dogs with squeaky balls or chewing toys.

Not even their own dogs were as excited as these about a gift.

A small black Rottweiler in whose cage Eggsy put his hand in order to scratch him behind the ears and on his chin actually slobbered on it, and he laughed. The dog was way too delighted.

“Okay, okay, bruv, that’s enough!”

He stood up again, and met Harry, who was about to offer a biscuit to the same Rottweiler. He looked at him with the same look he gave the dogs – happy and cheery and loving. Mindless of dog saliva, he put an arm round the older man’s waist, and rested his head on his chest. He took two biscuits for him – one for his friend and one for himself. He grinned boyishly, eating it.

They have forgotten about the stressful mission for a short while, and the dogs were happy. It was mutually accommodating business, really.

Yeah, it was a brilliant idea after all.