by Windsor Blue
A Favourite Uncle ficlet
Notes: I meant to get this out before Christmas…really I did. But it was not to be. So instead, it's going into the GWA sap contest. This is part of the "Favorite Uncle" series. Giselle's twelve, and Charlotte is seven. Oh, and Quatre's nickname for Charlotte is Lola. Someday I'll write a fic about how that came about. ^_~
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias.
From the editorial "Yes, Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus". The New York Sun, 1897.
She was picking at her pizza.
Trowa watched while trying to look like he wasn't as she plucked an olive off the slice on her plate and popped it gingerly in her mouth. There were times, like when she'd asked him with large, hopeful eyes if they could have pizza and chocolate cake for lunch like they used to when she was a kid, when she looked so much like the little girl who had stolen his heart so long ago that it left him breathless. There were times, like when she'd declared that they would have to eschew their usual pepperoni and sausage for vegetarian because she was "no longer eating anything that once had a face", when he knew he was catching a glimpse of the strong, principled woman she was becoming.
There were times, like right now when she was picking at the pizza she'd insisted on having and glaring dolefully across the mall at her little sister, when she was what she was - a thirteen year old girl, with all that implies. At times like this, Trowa was usually pretty grateful that he hadn't found his own sister until she was nearly through adolescence.
"You know," Giselle said finally, wiping her fingertips on a paper napkin as if the trace amount of pizza grease on her fingers was the most disgusting substance on earth, "Somebody should really tell her the truth."
Trowa followed her gaze, finding it focused on said little sister happily bouncing in Quatre's arms. At seven, Charlotte was probably too big to be held as much as she was, but then Quatre always was an indulgent uncle, especially where his "little Lola" was concerned. As he watched, Quatre spun the girl around in a little circle and dipped her – an impromptu waltz to pass the time while waiting in line to see Santa Claus. Charlotte giggled, Quatre beamed, and Trowa couldn't help but smile. "Tell her the truth about what, Gigi?" he asked.
"Santa Claus," Giselle replied with a hint of haughtiness. "She's getting too big to still believe in Santa Claus. Somebody should tell her there's no such thing."
Trowa picked up his pizza slice slowly, as if he were giving the matter serious thought. He could see them moving forward in the line, Quatre escorting Charlotte to Santa's lap with a flourish, and he remembered doing the same thing once, not so very long ago. "You still believed in Santa Claus at her age."
She shrugged. "That doesn't make it any less a lie. It's only fair to tell her the truth."
"I see," he nodded, chewing. "Are you going to be the one to tell her?"
She shrugged again. "Maybe." She liberated a piece of green pepper from the cheese it was trapped in and chewed on it carefully, watching Charlotte and Quatre out of the corner of her eye. "We met Dad's new girlfriend yesterday," she said.
"Ah," Trowa replied. "What did you think of her?"
"She's okay, I guess. I didn't talk to her much." Giselle began to pluck at her napkin again.
"What's her name?"
Giselle rolled her eyes in that particularly expressive manner only teenage girls can. "Brandee with two 'E's. I told Dad I was appalled with two 'P's, but he didn't get it."
Trowa chuckled appreciatively. "Well, I'm sure she's very nice."
She threw out a derisive snort. "Uncle Trowa, she's, like, Mariemeia's age. And she wears a lot of make-up and is, like, big." She emphasized that last word with an open-palmed grabbing gesture over her chest.
The movement made Trowa laugh out loud. "So, just because she's young and – er, big, she can't be a nice person?"
There was that snort again. Funny how teenage girls could make everything seem so dramatic and yet so easily dismissed at the same time. "They were kissing right in front of us – and I don't mean polite kissing, I mean kissing kissing. It was gross."
Trowa put the crust of his pizza down and picked up a napkin. "You don't mind when Uncle Quatre and I kiss in front of you," he said with a grin.
"When you guys do it, it's cute. When Dad and Brandee were doing it yesterday, it was gross. I don't need to know that my dad's a dirty old man, Uncle Trowa."
Trowa smiled and shook his head. He was about to reply when Charlotte came skipping up to the table, Quatre walking a scant few steps behind.
"I talked to Santa, Uncle Trowa! Did you see me?"
"Yes," Trowa grinned, wrapping the girl in a quick hug. "We both saw you. Did you tell him what you want for Christmas?"
"Yup," she nodded proudly. "And I told him what to bring you and Uncle Quatre, and I told him Uncle Duo said hello, just like he asked me to! I even told him what you wanted," she added pointedly to Giselle.
"Oh?" Giselle sniffed in her best older-sister voice. "And what did you tell Santa I wanted?"
"I told him you wanted Mommy and Daddy to love each other again. He said he couldn't make any promises, but he'd see what he could do. Uncle Quatre, can we get cinnamon rolls?"
"Sure, Lola," Quatre replied softly, gently. He slid his hand into Charlotte's and gave Giselle's shoulder a squeeze as they went by. Giselle sat quietly for a moment before looking up at Trowa. Her eyes were guilty and touched all at the same time.
"Do you still want to tell her the truth about Santa Claus?" Trowa asked.
She looked down at her pizza and shrugged. "I guess it can wait until next year."
Trowa reached across the table and took her hand, stroking it gently until she looked up. He gave it a small squeeze and smiled. When she smiled back, he smirked. "So are you going to eat that pizza, or what?"
"Yeah," she said, pulling her hand away and giving him a glare full of mock-wariness. "Get your own."
"I ate mine. Now I want yours. You're not really eating it, anyway - just picking at it."
With a knowing grin, she picked up the pizza and took a huge bite, making a big show of licking her lips and making appreciative eating noises. Trowa made a sharply disappointed sound and held his hand over his heart as if struck. "You're so cruel to your poor, starving uncle."
She laughed and took another dramatic bite, and Trowa smiled. At least she wasn't picking at her pizza anymore.