#train shenanigans

Day one

The Gare de l’Est swarms with travelers this October afternoon, the vaulted ceiling echoing with a cacophony of whistles, shouting porters, and hissing steam. Nesta stands on the platform with her single leather valise clutched in both gloved hands, watching the attendants of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits make their final preparations on the gleaming blue carriages of the Orient Express.

She’d paid an extortionate sum for a private first-class compartment, handing over nearly everything she had left after three days of hiding in a squalid Paris boarding house. The ticket agent had looked at her strangely when she’d appeared at his window yesterday evening, slightly breathless and disheveled, demanding immediate passage to Constantinople. But money smooths over questions, and Nesta has always understood the language of currency.

Her traveling costume—chosen hastily together with some additional dresses suitable for the journey from a shop on the Rue de Rivoli—consists of a black velvet skirt that falls in heavy folds to the platform, and a cream-colored bodice embroidered with black beadwork in an intricate pattern across the shoulders and chest. The sleeves are fashionably full at the shoulder, tapering to a close fit at the forearm, and the high collar fastens with a dozen tiny jet buttons. On top of it all, she wears a short black velvet jacket trimmed with more beadwork. Her hat—black with a single curled feather—sits pinned securely atop hair she’d arranged herself that morning, twisted into a low chignon that already feels precarious.

She looks, she hopes, like a respectable widow traveling abroad. Not like what she actually is: a ruined woman fleeing scandal with barely fifty pounds to her name.

“First class, madame?” A conductor appears at her elbow, eyeing her valise. “May I see your ticket?”

Nesta produces it from her reticule with fingers that tremble only slightly. The conductor examines it, nods, and gestures toward the forward carriages.

“Voiture number three, compartment D. This way, please.”

She follows him through the press of bodies, past weeping families bidding farewell, elegant couples embarking on grand tours, and businessmen scowling at their newspapers. The Orient Express represents the pinnacle of railway luxury, launched only a decade ago. Those who can afford its fares travel in unprecedented comfort from Paris to Constantinople. There are sleeping cars with private berths, dining cars serving French cuisine, and observation lounges with velvet upholstery and polished brass fittings.

Nesta has no interest in luxury. She simply needs distance between herself and London, between herself and the gossip that must be spreading through every drawing room like cholera by now. Did you hear about the Archeron girl? Tomas Mandray, of all people. In his study, they say, during Lady Pemberton’s ball. Absolutely ruined. Her sisters are beside themselves.

The conductor stops before a compartment door, sliding it open with a flourish. “Your accommodat—oh.”

He stops. Nesta, following close behind, nearly collides with his back.

“Oh?” she prompts, an edge creeping into her voice.

The conductor clears his throat. “It appears we have… un petit problème.”

But Nesta is already looking past him into the compartment, and she sees the problem immediately, and it’s not petit by any means.

A man occupies the space, sprawled across one of the two facing bench seats with his long legs stretched out, boot heels scuffing the burgundy carpet. He wears dark trousers that have seen better days, and a waistcoat over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A brown tweed jacket hangs from a hook beside the window. His hair, dark and too long, falls along a face that looks carved from rough stone, all hard angles and a shadow of stubble along his jaw. As Nesta and the conductor appear in the doorway, he glances up from the small leather-bound book in his hands, and she finds herself looking into hazel eyes that gleam with unmistakable amusement.

“Well,” he says, voice low and rough around the edges, accented with something she can’t quite place. “This is unexpected.”

—————

*this starts from the premise that they didn’t have Christmas on Paradis

So the cold season is rapidly approaching and they’re still stuck in Fort Salta. And as the days drag on, there’s a certain sense of restlessness settling in, as if the people, both the Eldians and the Marleyans from Marley, were supposed to be preparing for something. Like something important was right around the corner and they weren’t ready.

Which makes Armin terribly curious, but when he brings it up to Annie she just shrugs and says they have more important matters at hands.

Now this does little to satisfy his curiosity, if anything it only feeds into it. So he asks the Warriors, and they tell him about Christmas– this celebration of good, this day of giving to your loved ones. They start off slow, hesitant, unsure of what to tell him. Someone important was born that day, Pieck tells him, but she'd forgotten who. Reiner mumbles something about gifts and reindeers, but he can’t quite remember what linked the two. Then, they tell him about the decorations, the festivals, the joy and the light that would ensue– all on the good side of the town, of course. But if they were lucky they could flash their armbands at the gate and pass through, to witness the extravagancy of it themselves.

It’s with a bitter smile that Pieck tells him about all the delicious foods they'd prepare, to sell on the steeets, only to Good Civilians of course. About all the toys and all the clothes and all the smiling children and proud looking parents.

It all sounds so fascinating to Armin, so lovely and festive. But then he asks the obvious. What would you guys do for Christmas?

Their smiles slip then, only for a second. They tell him that it wasn’t such a festive celebration in Liberio. That they could do very little for it, but the very fact that they even put something together was rebellion enough. It was a time to cling to hope.

Reiner recalls hanging socks around the fireplace, albeit cold and unused, with his family, he recalls Gabi crawling up and yanking them off when she was but a toddler in search of news toys (they were never new, either his old toys or something his aunt would put together last minute). But the sight of Gabi's little smiling face as she fished them out was worth it every time. That, if they were lucky enough, his uncle would smuggle in a tree, and they would hang candy and fruits on its branches.

Pieck tells him about her father’s special Christmas recipes, the way they’d start saving up for them mid-October. How, in the dark and cold of the late December, those cookies he'd make would bring a beacon of light into their home. They could never afford a tree, but if she was free that day she would draw it on the wall of the kitchen.

That night, when he gets back to his tent (their tent, i imagine Armin and Annie would already be together by then), under the covers they'd patched together and holding each other close in an attemot to fight off the cold, he tells Annie about his findings and assaults her with questions.

"The guys said Christmas's in two weeks."

"Yeah."

"Did you know about Christmas?"

She sighs. "Yeah."

"They said it's a celebration of hope."

"I guess," she shrugs.

"Did you go to the festivals when you were little? Pieck said they were something to behold."

"Sometimes."

"What would you and your father do for Christmas?"

At that, Annie goes quiet for a second, and then she stirs around to face him. "Nothing. It was just another day."

So, for the next couple of weeks, Armin makes it his goal to bring Christmas to Annie, and to the Warriors. He might not now a lot about it, but he likes the idea of having something to cling to, a beacon of light and hope in these tiring times.

He pitches the idea to Jean and Connie and gets them to help him with the preparations. They find a suitable little tree in the forest nearby. They smuggle candy and nuts for their friends, even make garlands out of dried orange peels, put together little gifts.

When the day comes, they decorate the little tree with everything they'd gathered, sneak their gifts underneath. Jean makes them all something sweet, maybe sweet bread or something like that. Levi finds them some candles to light up, too, and Connie somehow manages to balance them between branches, to light up the tree.

It’s nothing of the grandour that Pieck has described, but it’s a little celebration of their own.

Getting the Warriors to follow them into the forest in the middle of the night proves to be a rather easy task, telling them that it’s Important Alliance Business is enough to do the trick.

Reiner is the first to see it. His eyes go wide, and his step seems to falter. Pieck notices and follows his gaze, then slaps a hand to her mouth, looking between them with wide, tear-brimming eyes.

It's Annie that asks, "What is this?" Yet her voice is soft, and she’s looking at their little preparations with glimmering eyes.

"It's Cryler," Connie tries to explain, and Jean soon corrects him. They argue over the name, but they're really the only ones who care, as the Warriors are too absorbed in the tree. Pieck rounds it a few times, admiring every little thing about it, her eyes getting damper as she goes. Reiner’s struck staring at it, a smile slowly morphing into his face.

Annie turns to her beloved, who's already looking at her with the cheekiest smile she's seen. She scoffs, yet can’t help a smile.

"What have you done?"

His smile only grows. "I wanted you guys to have Christmas. I wanted to bring you a piece of home." He scratches his nape at that, his face warming up. "I know it’s not a lot, but..."

"It's more than enough." She takes his face into her warm palms, tilting her head to the side slightly. "You didn’t have to."

He clicks his tongue, shakes his head a little, yet puts his arms around her all the same. "Do you like it?"

Annie only hums, and her hands fall to his shoulders. She takes another look at the tree, then averts her attention towards her most beloved. When she kisses him, short and sweet and oh so delicate, it feels like coming home.

"It's a pretty tree."

It's her very first tree– their very first tree, both as a couple and as a group. The world might be in shambles and barely holding on, but that night they let the tree give them a little hope.

Nesta wakes to the reflection of pale grey light off the gleaming wood paneling of her berth. It takes her a moment to remember where she is, blinking sleep from her eyes. She isn’t in her childhood bedroom in Hertfordshire, nor in the London townhouse or the shabby Paris boarding house, but on a train hurtling through Bavaria with a stranger sleeping four feet across the compartment from her.

The stranger in question is snoring. Softly, but definitely snoring.

She covers her face with the sheets. “I thought you said you didn’t snore.”

The snoring stops abruptly. There’s a moment of silence, followed by a rustle of fabrics. “I lied. Sorry.” Cassian’s voice is sleep-rough.

“Add it to the list of your sins.”

“It’s a long list. I might need a second page.” The bench creaks as he shifts. “What time is it?”

Nesta consults the small pocket watch she’d left under her pillow. “Half past seven. We should reach Munich within the hour.”

“Christ, that’s early.” But she hears him moving, preparing to face the day. “You sleep alright?”

“Well enough.” Better than she has in weeks, actually, lulled by the train’s rhythm and the strange comfort of another person nearby. “You?”

“Like the dead. These benches aren’t too bad once you get used to being in what’s essentially a padded coffin.”

Despite herself, Nesta smiles. She’s done that twice now in less than twenty-four hours. He makes her smile. She laughs because of him, feeling something other than the crushing weight of anxiety and shame. It’s disconcerting.

“I’m going to wash up,” Cassian announces, and she hears him push himself upright with a deep grunt. When she peeks out from under her covers, he’s standing in the narrow space between the berth and the bench in just his trousers, his chest bare and his dark hair rumpled.

She immediately looks away, heat flooding her face.

“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound particularly sorry. “I run hot. I usually sleep naked. I decided to spare you and your delicate constitution, and only lose the shirt. I probably should have warned you, though.”

“You could have mentioned that last night, yes.”

“Slipped my mind.” She can hear the grin in his voice.

—————