Chinese for Christmas
Written for Margaret's prompt on 60 Second Fic which was:
The prompt for Dec. 25th is:
"We ate Chinese."
We ate Chinese instead of turkey for Christmas dinner because it was what he wanted.
As I fork a mouthful of almond chicken into my mouth, I look across the table at him and see him smiling back at me.
I can't help wondering when it became so important to me to do what he wanted. I'd never done it for anyone else. Certainly not for poor Carolyn. If she'd told me she'd rather have Chinese instead of the traditional roast turkey with all the trimmings, I'd have written it off to some weird aberration and gone out and bought the turkey anyway. Hell, I'd have cooked it myself, if need be. After all, it was Christmas, we could do Chinese any time.
When Blair had walked straight past the freezer at the supermarket without even a glance at the birds just waiting to be selected, I'd simply followed him, watching with a small smile teasing my lips, as he bypassed the cranberries in the fruit and veg section, and the potatoes, and green beans and corn. He'd completely skipped the aisle where Christmas puddings sat waiting - in cans, in bags, to be plucked from the shelf and taken home and married with ice cream and cream. He marched past the aisle where cookies and fudge were kept, and didn't even glance at the pies in the bakery. My mouth watered at the thought of what I was obviously going to miss out on, but I didn't say anything till we reached the checkout.
I looked around at the other shoppers' carts, piled high with the food of celebration and festivity, then into ours, filled a quarter full with the normal trappings of our weekday shopping - coffee, tea, sugar, cream, two six-packs of beer, a couple of steaks and some rice. The makings for lasagna jostled for space with pancake mix and maple syrup, while lettuce and tomatoes rolled colorfully around the bottom.
Then I asked him why he'd skipped the most important parts of our Holiday shopping list. He shrugged, smiled, and said he'd tell me later, that he had something planned.
I accepted that, a vision of a fully catered Christmas dinner from Maxim's rising improbably into my head. Then I shrugged back at him and began to unload the shopping on to the checkout counter.
So, here we are, my lover and I, grinning at each other over Hoshi's best all you can eat banquet. Blair has a piece of moo shu pork decorating his lower lip, and I reach across, scoop into onto my finger and place it in his mouth, shivering as his tongue rolls seductively over my skin.
"So," I ask, lifting my champagne glass and toasting him with it, "Why Chinese? I know you're Jewish, Chief, but you told me you love Christmas, the food, the gifts, the whole love your brother routine."
Blair gives me one of those slow, sweet smiles that he reserves only for me. "Do you remember the very first night you invited me here?" he asks.
I nod. How could I forget? It was just after Kincaid had taken over the police station. For a while there I'd thought I'd lost Blair for good, when I'd realized he was on that chopper with Kincaid, heading God knows where. Blair had been a little shocky, not surprising considering all the energy he'd expended, using toilet doors and vending machines as deadly weapons, not to mention thinking Kincaid was going to hang him for treason. So, I'd invited him back to my place and we'd picked up Chinese and
"That's why?" I ask, making the connection. "But that was months before we ever did anything about -"
Blair nods, places a forkful of rice at my lips and feeds it to me. "I know, but it was the night I knew I loved you. What better way to celebrate Christmas?"
I walk around the table and kneel beside his chair, pulling him into my arms, kissing that beautiful mouth with all the love I can show. "There's no better way, Blair," I whisper, carding my hands through the silken strands of his hair. "Chinese for Christmas is perfect."
And it still is.