#latestfromqbranch

PIERCE, VIENNA, & HESTER

“Is that mistletoe?”

It’s not like it’s strung up in every corner of the house or anything. After the Grand Tour of the Small House, Pierce has switched to his usual scotch, neat. Vienna will not let him off so easy, though. She stands under the mistletoe and gazes up at him expectantly.

“You’re in my house, you know.”“Yes, I know.”“And… you did just see me kiss my wife not all that long ago–”

Hester manifests from thin air to unceremoniously shove her husband aside. “Come on, Porter, it’s just one kiss.” She stands next to Vienna and smushes her face, really selling it. “Look how cute!” A beat. Pierce doesn’t budge – if anything, he looks even more displeased – and Hester grins that terrible, terrible grin, sickly sweet with all its scheming.

“If you don’t do it, I will.”

Pierce’s stony expression crumbles in an instant and is replaced with one of shock, unhinged jaw and all. You wouldn’t, he wants to protest, but oh, she would, just to prove her point. Sands’s grin has turned triumphant, even though she hasn’t won anything yet. Their stalemate is interrupted by Vienna, who literally cuts the tension with her hand as the knife.

“Doesn’t anyone want to hear what I have to say about this?”“No.”“Yes!”

Hester stomps on Pierce’s foot, and he complies, eyes burning a hole right in the middle of his wife’s forehead.

“I’ve changed my mind. I would like a kiss from the both of you. Because we are now underneath the mistletoe. All of us.”

To emphasize her point, Vienna points up at the mistletoe dangling over the three of them menacingly. Hester nods vigorously, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Pierce wants to lie down on the floor and die.

“Hester, we’re married.”“What, you thought I forgot?”“No. Well, no and yes.”“It’s one kiss.”“It’s different.”“I kiss Raf all the time. And Desi, especially.”“I… I’m not drunk enough for this.”“Oh, I think you are.”

Sands pries the empty glass out of his hand and sets it aside. Vienna gives Pierce the once-over before she turns back to Hester, curls bouncing all over the place.

“Ladies first,” she giggles, cupping Hester’s face and smushing it just as she’d done only moments before. When Pierce clears his throat, the two women cast him a single cold glare.

He really doesn’t want to watch this, but he just can’t look away.

With a toothy grin, Vienna leans forward…

… and kisses Hettie on the nose.

“That felt…” Once she pulls away, Hester gently touches the point of impact. Her cheeks have flushed a bright shade of pink. “… ooh.”

“You ate too many snickerdoodles,” Pierce interjects, a smidge worried, “that’s what it is.”

A kiss on the nose won’t be so bad. He uncrosses his arms as Vienna places her soft hands on his cheeks. His gaze goes right through her and remains firmly fixed on the wall.

“You are too tall, Monsieur Porter,” Vienna breathes, standing on her tiptoes despite already wearing high heels, “I cannot reach your nose.”

Not an uncommon concern. Pierce makes to lean down so she can kiss his nose, but his timing is so outstandingly unfortunate that he is suddenly engaged in an open-mouth kiss with Vienna Janvier.

Pierce wrenches himself away, absolutely mortified, and stumbles backwards – right into the arms of Hester Sands. Vienna doubles over in raucous, hysterical laughter, and Sands soon joins her. At this, Pierce reckons that he would have much rather had Hester drop him and not fulfill the Trust Fall. It would have hurt less. Or at least his face would not have been burning up, as it is now.

“Happy Christmas, Vienna,” he mutters, not caring whether or not she can hear him (and she can’t). Pierce stalks off into the next room and closes in on Charles Lavoie.

“Is there alcohol in that?”“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

PORTER & SALSA

“You’re gonna become huge if you keep eating all of Santa’s cookies.”“And you just want them for yourself, you greedy, egomaniacal, imperialist–”“I’M WELSH. YOU ARE IN WALES–”

WE HAVE NO COLONIAL AMBITIONS, he wants to finish, but instead, Pierce settles for punching Salsa in the arm before snatching up a handful of Mum’s unfrosted gingerbread men for himself. Raf gives a loud cry of pain (total mockery), and before they know what’s what, they tackle one another and slam onto the linoleum floor, limbs thrashing and curses flying. Because they are adults.

One of them, however, is more of an Adult than the other.

“Jesus– Christ– on a crucifix–”“What’s with the religious conversion, Ace?”“My back…”

Salsa pinches the bridge of his nose (a very Porter-isian mannerism, he’d make a note to bother him about it later if he weren’t enduring searing pain in his backside) before offering a hand to help his friend up and over to the couch. While Raf moves off to get an ice pack, Pierce pulls aside the drapes for a moment to see if Mum and Hester are back from the shops. They’re not. Which is good.

“Why don’t you just fix me?” he complains once the ice pack is sitting neatly on the small of his back. Salsa flips through the channels on the telly idly before settling on some telenovela. Of course. He doesn’t even bother to look at him.

“I will, eventually, but you just love getting fussed over, even if you won’t admit it. My gift to you. Merry Christmas.”

Well, he can’t fault that, but he’s going to try. Pierce pointedly ignores Raf’s shit-eating grin and groans long and low into a throw pillow. After a long while, he’s recovered enough to lift his head and sniff a little pitifully.

“Your first visit to Mum’s, and you break her favorite son’s back.”“You’re not even your mother’s favorite Porter, Porter.”

///

♡ PESTER

Our muses kiss under a mistletoe.

“Alright, let’s review. First thing to do in the new year–”“Make a doctor’s appointment.”“Good. And then, assuming that, you know, goes well…”“Cut down on drinks. And coffee.”“That’s actually the fourth task, but I’ll give it to you.”

The morning after The Christmas Party, Pierce and Hester lie side-by-side on their living room floor, their breakfast plates licked clean and piled on the coffee table. It took Porter a while to reach a conclusion, but he’s decided to write out their list of tasks on paper. There is the risk that someone might find it lying around, but that risk is much smaller than the risk he’d take if he typed the list up on his computer. Evie and Galen aren’t to be trusted. All he has to do is put the list somewhere away from prying eyes.

With the company they keep, it’s easier said than done.

Hester gazes at him, chin in hand and stupid hearts in her eyes, and causes him to lose his train of thought for a hot second.

“Um. What else?”“You can get those vitamins for me. And I think they make some for dads–”“Calm down. I’m not a dad yet.”“Actually, you kind of are.”“Fair point.”

She’s been sidling closer to him for their entire conversation. Pierce rolls his eyes to the ceiling. That’s when he notices the mistletoe. He glances back at Sands, who glances back at him coyly.

“I’ll start cooking healthier food. We can still have cheesecake after, though…”“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”“Shhh. Oh. I read that you should stop putting your laptop on your crotch, too.”“Okay. That’s a weird one, and it sounds fake, but okay. How long are we waiting, again?”“A month or two, just to adjust, then we can go all in.”“And we’re not going to track your… self… or anything?”“Ovulation. Come on, Porter, you need to know–”“I do know!”

He’s just trying to be Suave and Subtle about it. And failing. As always. Sands sighs and pulls the pen out of his hand, setting it aside. After rolling him onto his back, she crawls on top of him, blanket and all, and cups his face with her hands.

“You said you just wanted us to be ourselves.”“I do, Hettie.”“And… and you’re sure?”“As I’ll ever be.”

She presses a soft kiss to the tip of Pierce’s nose (it’s just as sweet as a kiss on the lips, honestly); it’s Pierce who takes hold of Hester’s chin and makes sure they get an actual Mistletoe Kiss, all warm and fuzzy and cozy, before she buries her face in his chest.

EVIE & PIERCE

The Christmas tree is on fire.

“I AM LITERALLY IN THE NEXT ROOM OVER!” Pierce shouts from literally the next room over. His exclamation is promptly followed by the sound of something hard colliding with something harder, and then some expletives. He stumbles into the living room clutching at his knee.

The Christmas tree is not on fire.

Evie just stands there, alone, all dejected-like.

Pierce levels her with a Look.

“Evie, the Christmas tree is not on fire.”

When she doesn’t answer, he follows her gaze to the rug… and the enormous pile of guacamole sitting messily on top of it. He wants to be mad. He is mad. The party is going to start very, very shortly, this is a mess–

He groans, miserably, and crumples on the floor in a pitiful heap.

“Um, Porter?” Evie taps him on the shoulder, empty bowl in her other hand. “About that text. It was the only way to… get your attention.”

Pierce pushes himself into a half-sitting, half-slumped-over-and-dead-inside position. “You could have told me you’d spilled dip and I would have come prepared.”

She should knee him in the face for that (again) but instead Evie helps him up. It turns out she is the perfect height to be a Pierce Porter Hanger, much like Hester or even Desi. He limps off to the kitchen and returns with club soda and paper towels. Evie approves until Pierce hands her the supplies.

♦ PESTER

Our muses wrap presents together.

“You wrap everything so great! It’s not fair!”

Hester flops face-first onto the couch as Pierce sighs.

“You just need to practice. Like anything else.”

He carefully unties the shimmery gold ribbon and runs his fingertip along the edges of the paper to remove it without haphazardly tearing it off. A short while passes before Pierce taps Sands on the shoulder and she shifts over enough to let him sit beside her. He sets the empty square box on the table and holds out two rolls of wrapping paper to Hester.

“Your presents were nicely wrapped last year. Did something happen?”“No, I… I sent them to my dad to wrap them, and then he sent them back. It was really expensive. That’s why you didn’t get a lot of stuff.”

Pierce sighs again, then shakes the wrapping paper for emphasis. Hester sits up and grabs the paper with snowflakes.

“What about your anniversary gifts? And birthday gifts?”“They’re wrapped by people at the store. Or Salsa, when he’s not busy.”“Then why did you have to–”“Don’t question it.”

A third sigh nearly escapes him, but Pierce figures that two is more than enough. He hands the scissors to Hester. “Come on. You’ll be a pro by the end of the week.”

It’s her turn to sigh.

* * *

Some days later, Pierce wakes to an uncomfortable sensation on his abdomen. Just before he opens his eyes, there is a bright flash of white light, followed by uncontrollable gigging. He means to move a hand to cover his brow in exasperation already, but hits himself in the face instead, which only causes Hester’s giggles to become uproarious laughter.

He sits up, unable to take it any longer, and discovers a large red ribbon tied around underneath his ribcage, ending with an expertly-tied bow. Sands’s laughter devolves into snickering as she sets her phone on his nightstand and crawls on top of her husband.

“Sands…”“No, let me– make this joke–”“Sands.”“Pierce Porter, you are a gift.”“Sands!”

Although his prolonged, pained groan might suggest utter irritation, the way in which he responds to Sands untying the bow, pulling off his shirt, and holding him close shows that his disposition is anything but.

///

ø SANDY 

Our muses cuddle by the fireplace with hot cocoa.

Sprawled out belly-down in front of the crackling hearth, Andy watches his mug of hot chocolate intently, as if his staring is going to make it cool down any faster. Sara, on the other hand, sits beside him, blanket draped over her shoulders like a perfectly regal princess of some pillowy realm and her hot drink in her hands. Any other person who did so would probably not be able to use their hands for weeks, but Sara is Special. She blows on her hot chocolate more out of sympathy with Andy than anything else.

Until she, too, sets her mug down and places a hot hand on Andy’s back.

“Roll over, boy.”

Andy glances up at her, fully prepared to shoot her a glare at yet another one of her dog jokes, but he catches her eye and fumbles. Horribly. Hopelessly. He does as he’s told.

“Good boy,” Sara drawls, leaning over him to rub his stomach. If he twitches his leg, it’s totally not related to her hands on his abdomen. Not at all. He just has, like, restless leg syndrome or whatever. An unfortunate side effect of being a werewolf. Yeah. That.

Another side effect of being a werewolf is the gentle hummm he gives when Sara drapes herself over him, blanket and all, and doesn’t move until both of their drinks are cold and the fire is nothing but smoldering embers.

(If only Custard weren’t on holiday.)

///

CONNIE/LULA

“You look cold. Here, take my scarf.”

Of course he’s always cold. He doesn’t have fire inside him, or whatever it is that Actual Dragons have inside of them. He lacks that Dragon’s Fire, and he also lacks a heart. But that’s more on the metaphorical side of things.

Despite this, though, Connie’s a pretty warm person. Generally speaking. He has that sort of personality. But deep within is a layer of permafrost, and beneath that, nothing but ice.

One of these days, he’ll come up with a better metaphor.

For now, though, he lets Lula loop her hilariously oversized scarf around his neck at least a few times. And she’s right, it really does warm him up quite a bit.

“There’s enough of this thing to share it, love,” he comments, a wry grin spread thin across his features. Lula is all too happy to fuss over him, making quick work of the scarf to wrap it around both of their throats. She giggles all the while, a high-pitched, bubbly sort of sound.

Very few things irritate him more.

He tugs on the scarf to pull her in for a kiss.

(At least he’s warmer.)

///

BRIDGEKIT

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[two hours later]