The First Noel [Christmas Night with Dalton]

[Clarisse Prideaux]

Clarisse couldn’t help but burst into her small apartment with bubbling laughter. Her cheeks were rosey from the bit of wind that had lashed at them on the way up to the small studio. Really the apartment was rather tiny, but it suited Clarisse just fine. For as little as she was in it, it was surprisingly cozy, decorated with luscious charcoal art of varying human subjects. None of them were Clarisse’s hand, but she was very fond of their dark, romantic imagery.

The drive from James’ house had been short, but no less pleasant. Just as full of stories and laughter as the rest of the night had been. It had been a Christmas to die for, and Clarisse was sincerely glad she’d asked Jake to share it with her. She daintly kicked some snow off of her black patent pumps and ushered him inside. “Please, come in.” Clarisse didn’t have the gall the admit she wasn’t ready to say goodbye…not just yet.

She shirked out of her black coat and hung it on a regal looking cast iron coat rack, peeling off her gloves with a ladylike grace. She reached to help Dalton with his coat. “May I get you anything? Warm Tea? A glass of wine?” Clarisse offered, shaking herself slightly to grow accustomed to the artificial heat in the apartment. The fabric of her emerald green dress wooshed about her knees as she did so.

Christmas wasn’t Clarisse’s favorite time of year, per se…too close to her birthday really. She didn’t like being fussed over for two holidays in one, after all. Too many gifts. So much effort for her. She cringed to think of others working on her behalf. However, she did enjoy the yuletide. There was something magical about the day of Christmas, something that made people’s hearts warmer, that made them quicker to smile.

….it didn’t really help that Clarisse was rather fond of red, either. It showed in the sparse Christmas décor of her apartment. A red runner on the small kitchen table, decked out with a scene of Santa Claus in the night sky. A garland draped neatly over the window. And a tiny white, synthetic Christmas tree sitting on a coffee table in the living room area; decorated with small red ornaments.

Near to the tree was a rather large and rather out-of-place looking terrarium, housing Clarisse’s pet tarantula ChiChi. Normally she kept her darling pet at the school, but being gone for the break…she couldn’t bear to be parted with her. It hadn’t occurred to Clarisse that ChiChi’s presence might offend.

“Please.” She motioned to the black leather loveseat, herself poised near a matching armchair. The black and white décor of the home would have seemed harsh elsewhere, but it seemed to fit Clarisse. Even the splash of red matched her usual wardrobe. “Sit?”

[Jacob Dalton]

Dalton had enjoyed a most enchanting evening. It had been delightful visiting, chatting, sharing food and stories: but even moreso, it had been more healing than he could have imagined to do so with Clarisse by his side. He felt certain that he must be walking about with the most ridiculous grin on his face: in truth, he was so relaxed his face looked ten years younger. The whole visit felt so incredibly right, he was hesitant to assert that he was not dreaming it.

As they approached Clarisse’s door, Jacob hesitated. Was it to end here? Would it be improper for him to seek more time with her this evening? His hand went briefly to his pocket, but then she spared him with her invitation. He carefully wiped his shoes before stepping inside.

He gazed about the apartment and chuckled. “May I say I do love your taste in decorating. Your style has such a sense of the classic, you put me in mind of the ladies of film noir: say, Rita Hayworth or Lauren Bacall. To see you in a black and white setting seems almost too apropos.”

Normally he would not have shared such an observation, but there was something about Clarisse that was leading him to be quite open. It was as if she were breaking down his barriers of reserve and caution. Why did he trust her so completely? He was uncertain, but unconcerned.

“And I hope I have told you just how fabulous you look tonight. My dear: if meta-human biology and nursing ever lose their appeal for you, I daresay you might explore a career in the world of fashion. You have quite the eye for it.”

He nearly blushed as she reached to help with his coat, but was pleased to surrender it to her. Then her suggestion of a drink sounded like the perfect opportunity for what he had in mind. “If you have some wine or champagne suitable for a small toast, I should be delighted. If not, a cup of tea would do quite well.”

Glancing about, he caught sight of the terrarium but paid it only cursory interest. He wondered idly if she had a hermit crab, hamster or some other such creature there, but it didn’t hold his attention long enough to notice the occupant.

Once again his hand moved to his pocket, as he debated the proper timing and presentation for the small box he had brought with him. But it seemed like the evening was moving of its own accord in just such a direction. So, no worries.

He accepted her invitation and settled into the loveseat with a contented sigh. “I can’t say that I recall having a more delightful evening in years. From the sparkle in your eyes, I am hoping it has been as enjoyable for you?”

[Clarisse Prideaux]

Clarisse blushed gracefully. “Thank you. I do try. I’m not here much…but when I am I like to feel comfortable.” It warmed her to her toes to know Dalton though her home was well decorated. It stroked her tiny ego, to say the least. It was a good think she didn’t have pets besides her Tarantula: any other sort of hair would be a nightmare to clean from the monochrome décor. She took his coat and hung it next to hers, shaking it out so that it would lay and not become wrinkled or mussed.

Her blush darkened. “Oh no.” Clarisse loved fashion, but she couldn’t see a career in it. “I don’t have the temperament for such a cutthroat business.” She shook her head. Plus, she thought everyone had their own beauty. The fashion industry would have everyone believe otherwise. “But all the same…thank you again. “You’re full of compliments tonight!”

She practically floated into the kitchen and paused. She didn’t have champagne. It wasn’t close enough to New Years. But her home was about as full of wine as a one-person apartment could be. She peeked at a little cove near the refrigerator, trying to make a selection. There were only two bottles on the counter, both red. She sighed and hung her head, it wasn’t worth fretting. “I hope you like red wine, Mister Dal---“ She chuckled. She never could kick the habit of using a proper title. “Jake.” She corrected. Clarisse pulled out an Argentinean Malbec and squinted at it. There were about two glasses left in it. There. Decision made. “I do, very much.” She brought the bottle to him and showed it. “Marlena Malbec?” She offered. Not the most expensive thing in her wine cupboard, but one of her favorites, all the same.

She blinked. “Wait…a toast?” She laughed. “Another for this night? What are we toasting now, Jake?” Clarisse asked good-naturedly, more teasing than anything…if Clarisse could be capable of teasing someone. “…Nevermind.” She said, laying her hand on his shoulder. “I suppose I’ll find out?”

Clarisse sighed wistfully. “Its been wonderful. As wonderful as any other evening I’ve had.” She chuckled again. “Does it really show that much?”

[Jacob Dalton]

Dalton could appreciate Clarisse’s sense of comfort. This kind of setting was one in which he could feel quite comfortable himself. He had to nod when she commented on the cutthroat nature of the fashion industry. “I suppose I was not thinking so much in terms of the intrabusiness politics, but you do have a point. Art should be art for art’s sake: not who can cut the best deals where and with whom. And then again, modern ‘fashion’ too often seems to be about shouting some new statement, whereas you recognize that the classics endure.”

He smiled. “As far as compliments go, I am delighted to share ones that are so richly deserved. I sincerely believe the old adage ‘If you can’t say something nice—’ has a corollary: ‘When you can, always do.’ People are far too stingy with compliments: and why? Who could not use a sincere boost to their ego? And what does a compliment cost? I don’t mean false flattery, but I hope you know there has been nothing false in my appreciation of this evening or your company tonight.”

At her mention of the wine, he pursed his lips. “A ‘Malbec?’ Don’t believe I have had the pleasure: perhaps you can introduce me? And ‘Marlena,’ as in ‘Deitrich?’ Are we sticking with a theme of film noir goddesses tonight?” he teased.

He accepted the glass she brought in, holding it up and swirling it a moment in the light. “Nice legs: good body. I’ve seen that color before: a Bordeaux, perhaps?” He took a light sniff. “Doesn’t smell like a Bordeaux at all: a nice fruity bouquet for such a full-bodied vintage.”

He stopped short before taking a sip, smiling as she asked about the toast. “Indeed you shall,” he assured her softly: “I have no wish to neglect this particular toast.” But he also had no wish to interrupt this lovely time together.

The simple feel of her hand placed affectionately on his shoulder: a warmth of touch he had missed considerably over the years. Suddenly he understood far better why many unhappily married men succumbed to affairs: the simple desire to be appreciated romantically could become like air to a drowning man. He had never been unfaithful to Delia, for whatever that was worth: but now he far better understood the pull. Silently he reached up to give her arm a tender squeeze of appreciation.

As she sat and asked if her enjoyment was truly so obvious, he leaned forward and nodded. “It certainly is. A look at your face, and it is as if you had been parched by the desert, and just now been given a cool drink. Am I partly responsible for that? The sparkle in your eyes and your delightful smile seem to tell me so: and as compliments go, those are more precious than fine gold. Please rest assured that I feel much the same, and that you are truly responsible for that.”

He shook his head and smiled ruefully. “I really must watch myself. In your presence, I say such things as I would never say to another living soul. I begin to feel quite silly when I consider-- and yet at the same time, I don’t. Do you understand what I mean?

He took a deep breath, and raised his glass to her. “I propose a toast to the tradition of the Christmas present. Not a ‘gift card,’ or a ‘money envelope:’ not some can of stale popcorn or basket of fruits, but of the giving of a true present. Something that shows concern for and interest in the recipient, a desire to fulfill their desires. It is a tradition I fear is getting lost these days, in spite of or perhaps because of commercialism: but one I personally feel is most reflective of the true meaning of Christmas. Cheers…”

As he sipped the wine, he nodded with approval. “Rather a plum flavor, I’d say? Nicely oaked…”

And so saying, he slipped the small flat box from the jeweler’s out from his pocket and laid it on the coffee table. “I know we have only just met. I hope you will not think me too forward. But I have a hope that in the future, we may regard the night of the dance as a milestone to look back upon with great fondness. I hope you will not consider it excessive that I selected something by which to commemorate the events of that evening?”

[Clarisse Prideaux]

She listened to his analysis of the fashion world, wondering absently where on earth he’d come up with such an in-depth run down of it. Clarisse knew the basics, as just about everyone did. But Dalton seemed to have a wealth of knowledge about the subject that no one else shared. Or maybe it was just his vocabulary. Inwardly, Clarisse giggled at the thought. No doubt Jake was smart, but he really did seem to just know everything.

Having the grace to blush, Clarisse hid a smile behind her hand. “Jake. I know your flattery is always sincere, but my ego needs no boosting.” She shook her head, leaning her cheek on her hand and regarding him fondly. “You should write down the things you say, Jake.” She complimented. “I’d sincerely love to have some printed on my wall.” It was true. Much of what Dalton said was worthy of immortalizing on a wall somewhere…or at least in a hallmark card.

Clarisse tilted her head. “Mmm…Jake.” She chuckled. “A wine is a wine. Don’t try and analyze it. At least not until the bottle is empty.” She listened to him list the qualities of the wine. He seemed pleased. “You like it?” Her own glass dangled absently from her hand. She would drink it on her own time.


She blinked when the toast began, hesitantly raising her glass. Gifts? What?! She completed the toast without saying a word other than a whispered “Cheers.” The toast was too beautiful to have anything added to it. She moved to sit in the chair, gently swirling the wine in the class before taking a slow sip that mirrored Jake’s: inhale the scent, a close of her eyes. No lipstick stained the glass. “You’ve brought a smile to my face more than anything this season, Jake.” She looked over his face earnestly. “You are my favorite Christmas Gift, I daresay.” She added with a shy blush and a chuckle. Clarisse nervously touched her hair, her heart fluttering. “I suppose I’m saying…know what you mean.”

Clarisse stared stupidly at the box. It was…an actual gift! She hadn’t expected an actual Christmas gift. At least not yet. However…She smiled tightly, as if holding in raucous laughter. Her eyes sparkled with glee and she suddenly sat forward, placing her wine glass on the coffee table near the box. “Wait.” She said, her voice breathy with excitement. Clarisse stood and bolted to another room, her heels clattering on the wood floors.

When she returned, she put a small square package wrapped in silver paper next to the box from the jewelers. “I didn’t go out looking for it for the occasion…but…” She tucked her hair behind her ear, her eyes flickering to Dalton. “I saw it in the store and I…” She shrugged. “I knew you had to have it. Or at least…I felt that I…I had to give it to you.” She smiled and actually sat next to him on the seat instead of in the chair. “Please open it first?” She implored. She was curious to know what he selected, but more interested in if he would like what she’d found or not.

Usually she didn't go snooping around in antique stores, at least not when she wasn't looking for something specific. But when she was out Christmas shopping she had just...needed to step in. It was certainly the perfect moment. She'd found the copy of Moliere's Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme gathering dust on an old bookshelf. It's pages were crumbling, and it was barely readable...but it was certainly in French. She'd bought it without a second though, wrapped it with care, and placed a tag on it that read:

"A french gentleman for his english counterpart."

She warmed with joy when he opened it, but couldn't keep the shock off of her face when she pulled the lid off the box...

[Jacob Dalton]

<< “You should write down the things you say, Jake.” She complimented. “I’d sincerely love to have some printed on my wall.” >>

He blushed. “What, publish a book? ‘All my Aphorisms,’ by Jacob Dalton? A wee bit catchy: but only a wee bit. Something missing there: a certain lack of depth?” He hardly felt that what he said off the cuff bore repeating: it felt good to be told otherwise, but he couldn’t quite accept it.

<< Clarisse tilted her head. “Mmm…Jake.” She chuckled. “A wine is a wine. Don’t try and analyze it. At least not until the bottle is empty.” >>

Dalton paused and grinned ruefully. “One of the faults of educating a palate: everything becomes analysis instead of enjoyment. Like a film critic who can no longer merely enjoy the film without dissecting the plot structure...” he sighed. “If or when I forget again: keep reminding me? Just like that?”

He raised the glass to his lips, deliberately shutting out all the cacophony of analytical thought that usually accompanied such an action. He tasted the wine, and it was good...

<< “You’ve brought a smile to my face more than anything this season, Jake.” She looked over his face earnestly. “You are my favorite Christmas Gift, I daresay.” She added with a shy blush and a chuckle. Clarisse nervously touched her hair, her heart fluttering. “I suppose I’m saying…know what you mean.” >>

He gazed at her face, still marveling at both her natural beauty and classic taste: but more than that, at the appreciation he read in her eyes. This was his gift: that he meant something significant to her. For him, that was a priceless treasure in itself.

“I daresay Santa did a fine job this year. I must remember to write him a thank note, for putting us under each other’s trees. So good of him to provide a matched set…”

<< She smiled tightly, as if holding in raucous laughter. Her eyes sparkled with glee and she suddenly sat forward, placing her wine glass on the coffee table near the box. “Wait.” She said, her voice breathy with excitement. Clarisse stood and bolted to another room, her heels clattering on the wood floors. >>

He could sense her excitement, but was a bit mystified at its cause. She wouldn’t have had time to…? No, not likely at all…

<< When she returned, she put a small square package wrapped in silver paper next to the box from the jewelers. “I didn’t go out looking for it for the occasion…but…” She tucked her hair behind her ear, her eyes flickering to Dalton. “I saw it in the store and I…” She shrugged. “I knew you had to have it. Or at least…I felt that I…I had to give it to you.” >>

She had. As early as it was in their relationship, she had bought him a present as well. He couldn’t think of anything she might have done that would say so much about how quickly she had taken to him. Of course, his own present was fully intended to say much the same.

“I – certainly wasn’t expecting this. Thank you…”

As he picked it up he immediately recognized the shape and heft that said “book.” He smiled: she certainly understood that much about him. He unwrapped it with care, and was glad he had done so. It was an early edition: not in the best of shape to be sure, but a volume that must have been handed down year after year…

<< She'd found the copy of Moliere's Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme gathering dust on an old bookshelf. Its pages were crumbling, and it was barely readable...but it was certainly in French.>>

“Moliere…” He turned the pages gently, entranced for the moment, checking the publication date: 1874. He saw notes written with quill pen, marking the book originally as a gift from father to son. Passages throughout the play were underscored with delight: he even found parted threads from where someone long ago had cared enough to rebind the book by hand. This book, a classic satiric comedy Dalton thought of as the French version of “The Importance of Being Earnest,” had been truly loved…

<< She'd bought it without a second thought, wrapped it with care, and placed a tag on it that read:

"A French gentleman for his English counterpart." >>


He read the card, both an homage to his own words from the dance and more than a spark of wit from her. So well considered, and so beautifully done -- and so much an assurance that she would be delighted with his present for her.

“I—I truly don’t know what to say. It’s incredible. Beautiful… Thank you so much!”

Impulsively he reached out to hug her, and drew her in against his chest. As if by instinct she fitted herself against him, their posture molding them together in a perfect fit. It had been intended as merely a moment’s embrace, but having done so, he was loathe to remove his arm.

Except that she would need to leave his embrace to reach the box on the table.

“Your turn.”

<< She warmed with joy when he opened it, but couldn't keep the shock off of her face when she pulled the lid off the box... >>

The box contained two elegant barrettes, each with a silk rosebud and a single pearl mounted at the base of the bud.

“For whenever you choose to remember that night, and I have not a fresh rosebud to give. For whenever you are to meet me, and wish to tell me I have been in your thoughts. For whenever you reach up to brush back your hair, and desire a reminder of my affections. For all these things: and because you have no idea how stunning you look with a rosebud in your hair…”

[Clarisse Prideaux]

It wasn’t very often that Jake was the one blushing, but it tickled Clarisse pink. She really just wanted to triumphantly pinch his cheeks, if only to make it worse. Perhaps there was a bit of a vindictive streak in Clarisse? (Not a chance) “I would buy it.” She confessed quietly. “But I suppose I wouldn’t have to, since I have the real thing.” She patted him on the arm, if not to simply comfort him for being a wine snob of sorts.

Clarisse had been guilty of over-analyzing good wine after good wine during her marriage. After her husband had died, she’d slowly learned to appreciate small things. She looked down at Dalton as he examined her eyes. Sometimes she wondered if he saw everything with the analysis of an educated palate, or a book or film critic…but then he gave her looks like that: scrutinizing, but affectionate. And she didn’t care. Jake could think however he wanted, and she rather adored him just the same.

She shook her head at his thanks. “Don’t thank me. It belongs with you.” She beamed widely, watching his reaction with sincere glee. He handled it like a baby, cradling it in his hands; holding it like it was meant to be held, treating it like it was worth something. Clarisse folded her hands in her lap and simply stewed in the knowledge that not only had she bought something that was right for Dalton, but that she’d selected a recipient that was right for the book.

Instinctively, she stiffened when he pressed her to him. It was nothing against him at all, she was just…surprised. She hadn’t told him about her husband yet, but it still shocked her on occasion that people wanted to touch a murderer. She closed her eyes and buried her face against his collarbone, curling against him gently. The embrace lingered. Clarisse didn’t complain. At least not until Dalton spoke again, prompting her to open her gift.

“Your turn.”

Her jaw was still slack when she looked back to him, and her eyes looked moist, as if she might cry. Clarisse had always been more than graceful about receiving gifts. Each that she received was so personal to her, and was so greatly appreciated that it wasn’t uncommon that she was made speechless, if not moved to tears. She listened to his explanation of the gift, his motive and his hopes for them, and gently took one in her hand.

Turning the barrette against her palm, she simply shook her head. “Jake…” She said breathlessly. “Jake they’re…they’re perfect. They’re so beautiful.” She laid her head on his shoulder in a half hug as she drew out the other barrette. When she sat up again, she smoothed back her unruly strands of hair, pinning them back with both barrettes. She turned her head to face Dalton, shaking her head in incredulity. “They are perfect. Thank you.”

She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. It was a unabashed show of affection, and actually made Clarisse a little embarrassed, but she didn’t think any other gesture better showed her gratitude. “Merry Christmas, Jake.” She said softly against the collar of his shirt, careful that her lipstick didn’t catch his collar, or her lips brush his neck. Clarisse pulled away from him and dabbed at the corner of her eyes. No tears flowed, but they certainly looked about to.

[Jacob Dalton]

<< “I would buy it.” She confessed quietly. “But I suppose I wouldn’t have to, since I have the real thing.” She patted him on the arm… >>

He knew Clarisse could not possibly realize how much these little declarations of appreciation and respect were doing to heal the pain of years in which the most frequent response he had received from his lady had been scorn. He could not remember the last time Delia had extended him such affection, acceptance and appreciation: the last time she had made even so simple a gesture as a caress, a hug, a simple touch. How could it be that he had come to accept that disdain as his lot in life? _This_ moment: _this_ feeling of being cared about, of knowing that someone thought well of him, as he did of her: wasn’t this what it had always been supposed to be about? Yes, he was positive it was: and the incredible gift she was extending him again and again was enough at this moment to leave him speechless. Once more all he could really do was to return the gesture with a gentle squeeze of gratitude to her arm.

<< Instinctively, she stiffened when he pressed her to him. It was nothing against him at all, she was just…surprised… >>

Under his arm it had felt at first as if she were relaxed and receptive to his embrace, but under the delicate sensitivity of his fingertips he could feel muscles beneath the surface tighten and tense. Perhaps he had been too forward: it was after all only their second, perhaps third “date,” depending on how one defined such things.

Perhaps especially since it was the first time in the privacy of her home, she feared that this was a prelude to him pressing her for a far greater expression of intimacy: a situation that a woman of her beauty had no doubt encountered far too often in the past. Perhaps he should have been more circumspect: perhaps even at this moment it were best if he were to remove his arm…

<< …She closed her eyes and buried her face against his collarbone, curling against him gently. The embrace lingered. Clarisse didn’t complain… >>

…and perhaps not. Perhaps she, too, was slightly gunshy when it came to romance. Given her one most recent romantic experience within his knowledge and its rather dreadful denouement at the party, it might have been rather disturbing if she had not held some trepidation.

For that matter, Dalton had no idea how involved she and Mr. Bond might have been: not that it would affect his judgment of her in any way, but it would tell him more about her current emotional state and how carefully to tread in certain areas.

Then again, it was not like he had flooded her with the weight of all his emotional baggage either. Candor has its limits. But something told him she was finding their involvement quite as healing as was he.

<< “Jake…” She said breathlessly. “Jake they’re…they’re perfect. They’re so beautiful…” >>

Dalton once more felt at a loss for words as he watched her looking over the barrettes, then pinning them in place.

“Yes: they look lovely indeed. Far lovelier now than a minute earlier. Then again, I could be biased…”

<< She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. It was a unabashed show of affection, and actually made Clarisse a little embarrassed, but she didn’t think any other gesture better showed her gratitude. “Merry Christmas, Jake.” >>

He returned her hug tenderly. Whatever concerns she might have been fighting earlier, they seemed to be at rest for now. For that he was most grateful. “And Merry Christmas to you, Clarisse. I daresay, the best Christmas I can recall in a long time…”