cassidy stacy had a very mercurial relationship with christmas.

growing up with edith as a mother, the yuletide was less a celebration of merriment. it was stressful, really. getting a new bible every december, each looking more ancient than the last lost its grandeur after the first two years of his life.

but since marrying you, a christmas fanatic, he could see that there were redeeming facets. not christmas parties, fuck, those were awful, and eggnog was sorely overrated—but rather, he got to see your grins as you shoved him into the most atrocious christmas sweaters known to man.

since his sister’s passing, his nephew francis had also joined the festivities—perhaps why all the ornaments on your flat’s little tree were dinosaur themed. this year, you’d made the mistake of getting an elf on the shelf.

“burt,” as francis had affectionately christened the wretched sprite, had become a source of delight for the child, who greeted each morning with a hunt for his elusive perch. less enthused was cassidy, who had to roll out of bed to hide the infernal thing and take painkillers for the headcold he’d been blessed with.

but the holidays were about family, which meant that his mother was to extend another barbed olive branch.

“—she says chad wants to visit francie.” cassidy muttered, pressing the briefest of kisses to your shoulder as he passed you to fix the elf; his penance for nearly incapacitating you with an errant knee during your ill-timed attempt at a morning embrace.

he always looked radiant when he woke up. a radiant mess, though. his dark curls cascaded over his forehead in gravity defying directions, maroon big nick energy shirt (yes, it was a pun) draped over his lithe frame like a blanket.

“i know the kid wants to see his father, but i don’t fancy the idea of my…mother accompanying him. and before you call me dramatic,” he added, crests of his cheekbones lightly flushed as he scowled in your direction, “you know she will. she might even steal burt and call him a false idol.”