Summary: Just what the title says. Snapshots
of the decoration process ... and purple lights, c. 1100 words. Min
does Holiday SilliFic. Absolutely no redeeming value to this, whatsoever.
;> Ultimate X-Men Post issue #12, before issue #15.
Notes: The Annual Dreaded Hanging of Lights is entirely at
fault for the inspiration of this. This story assumes that Scott and
Jean are a couple, in addition to Ororo and Hank (post 'I Guess It's
All Right'). It doesn't much matter, but just in case. Much of this
is in dialogue form, and all color puns are fully intended.
8:37am, Saturday morning, post-Thanksgiving.
"Purple? You bought purple lights?"
"Yeah, it'll be cool," Bobby said.
Scott gave an excellent impression of rolling his eyes even though
no one could actually see them roll. "Purple lights will make us look
like we never left the '60s, man. Next, you'll want a velvet-backed
painting of Elvis for the den."
Jean spit apple juice and Ororo practically choked on coffee cake.
"What's wrong with Elvis?" Hank asked.
"Nothing's wrong with Elvis. But anyone who thinks paintings on velvet
constitute class should be taken out and shot."
Jean leaned over to set down her glass and wrap both arms around
Scott's shoulders. "You're a grouch this morning," she whispered -
loud enough that everyone else could hear.
"Dammit, I hate hanging Christmas lights!" he said, and threw up
both hands, pushed her off and stood to stalk out. "It's a stupid
waste of time and a pain in the ass."
"But this year you have us to help!" Hank called after him.
"That's supposed to make me feel better?" Scott called back.
10:07am, Saturday morning
"Let's see, that's fifteen 100-light strands of white ones," Jean
said, as she and Hank sorted through the box of lights from last year.
"Ten sets of net lights, ten strands of icicle lights, and six sets
of trunk lights. And ... Bobby and Peter bought how many purple lights?
Good god. Twenty? Purple and white, here we come. What football team
is that anyway?"
"Dunno," Hank replied, unraveling one strand with his feet and another
with his hands. "But my high school colors were purple and white.
Jean looked up. "You're kidding."
"Alas, no. Dressing in school colors always left me feeling like
an advertisement for a winery."
10:47am, Saturday morning
"Jean, hand me the next strand, please."
'Hand' was a metaphorical term, but language had yet to catch up
to mutant powers. She levitated it the lights up to where Scott could
grab them leaning way too far out from the ladder, as far as Jean
was concerned. It was a good one - fiberglass, not aluminum. But
God, it made Jean's belly sick just to see him up three stories. Scott,
of course, loved heights. His Indian blood, he said. Not that he played
Indian more often than twice a year: on Columbus Day and Thanksgiving.
Columbus Day gave him an excuse to wear his "Columbus Was Lost" t-shirt,
and Thanksgiving gave him an excuse to wear black for the (Indian)
dead. Jean reminded him that his Indian blood was about enough to
fill a thimble and bequeathe him high cheekbones. He reminded her
that he was an fully-enrolled member of the Raven Band of the Tlingit.
Which was why he had a raven tattoo on his ass.
That thought made her laugh.
"Next strand, Jean," he called down.
But Hank had appeared from where he'd been working around back, to
snatch the strand right out of midair and scamper up the side of the
mansion - startling Scott, who nearly fell. "Jesus God, man! Give
me a heart attack! And where in hell have you been?"
"Putting purple lights in the cedars."
"Just as long as they aren't on the house."
12:17am, Saturday noon
"Pass me the plate of hotdogs," Peter called.
They had paused to eat lunch, lights and food spread out on the driveway.
"What is it," Ro muttered, "about the Y-chromosome and hotdogs?"
"At least they're not asking for pizza," Jean said.
"Pizza for dinner," Bobby chimed in.
"TURKEY for dinner," Jean told them, which was met by a collective
groan from the male members of the X-team.
1:27pm, Saturday afternoon
"Breaktime is over, guys. Up and at em."
"Blow it out your ear, Cyclops."
"Hey. I'm not the one who went out and bought twenty-fucking sets
of purple lights, man! I'll be damned if I hang them all. That's
"Purple is a very ROYAL color, Scott. Suitable for Christmas."
"It looks like fucking black light on the lawn."
2:17pm, Saturday afternoon
"Walk like an Egyptian."
Flabbergasted, Jean stopped in her unpacking of the shrub nets to
gape. Bobby Drake, Peter, and Hank were doing the chickenwalk across
the drive, singing bad 80's tunes. Off-key. Dressed in strings purple
lights. Battery-operated, apparently. They were blinking.
Ororo was laughing so hard, she was having trouble breathing.
Scott exchanged a glance with Jean. "Belview is in New York, isn't
it?" he asked.
"You make the call. Straight jackets at the very least."
3:47pm, Saturday afternoon
"Wow, it looks nice," Ororo said.
"Even with purple lights," Jean admitted.
Scott didn't reply to that, but at least he wasn't making cracks
"I told you purple would look grand," Peter said. Then, to Bobby,
"How about a little snow, for effect."
"No way," Scott said. "You want to explain to the neighbors why we
have a white Thanksgiving when the temps hit a high of fifty-six today?"
"Party pooper," Ororo said. But she was grinning, and she hooked
an arm around his neck, half-hanging on him. "You did good, Fearless
Leader. They're all up and it's not even dark yet."
"No thanks to Bobby."
"Hey! I helped!"
"You mostly threw custom snowballs at Jean's ass."
"You're just jealous. And hey, what about that pizza?"
7:27pm, Saturday night
"It's really very pretty, isn't it?" Jean asked, as she and Scott
ambled along the lower drive, his arm draped about her shoulder. "And
it took a lot less long, with all of us, than last year."
"It's all right."
She tilted her head up to regard him with amusement. "Admit it, Slim.
It was fun."
"It was less of a pain than last year."
"GOD, you are such a Scrooge."
"No, I'm not. I just don't see the point of maxing out the electrical
bill every December."
"You're a Scrooge."
"I am not."
"You are, too."
"Too." Jean poked him in the side. He flinched away. "It was fun.
Admit it, Cyclops."
"Okay. It was ... mildly amusing."
"You're a hopeless case."
"You spend a lot of time on the rehabilitation of a hopeless case."
"He has a cute ass, tattoo and all. I can't resist."
Even in the dark, she could see that he was blushing.
(Who actually likes purple Christmas lights)
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