Who: Dante and Vi. What: Ice Skating, Eggnog and Fruitcake, oh my! Where: Starts at their apartment. Ends with iceskating. When: A few years ago at Christmastime. Warnings: Dante has a notoriously filthy mouth. TBD for other stuff. Prompt: Holiday
Dante was not particularly fond of human holidays. He had decided this the very first winter that he had spent above ground, and his opinion of this confounding time of year had not really altered much in the years that had followed since. There were the decorations, for one. It seemed he couldn't move an inch in the small amount of space he shared with Vi without bringing some animatronic, dancing thing to life; from the kickline of elves over the mantle to the jiggling snowmen she kept insisting were cute, he was completely and utterly surrounded. Then there was the music. If he thought that normal music was irritating, he had been very underprepared for the obnoxious cheeriness of what Vi called Christmas carols. The first time she had tried to introduce him to it, he had promptly ejected the disc she'd played, cast one disinterested glance over the cleavage-baring skank on its cover, and had thrown it unceremoniously out the window of their apartment.
Vi had not been pleased.
Mariah Carey is a legend Dante, she had told him angrily, and he had waspishly shot back that such prestige could only have something to do with how many men she was capable of driving to literal insanity with her music.
Overall, Christmas time did nothing to assure him that humans weren't all entirely batshit crazy, but over the years he had drawn a few simple pleasures from it if only to help him maintain his own sanity while the world was dragged into red and green chaos around him. One of these things was a strange, dense and spongy delicacy called fruit cake. Not typically one to indulge in sweets, Dante had found the treat strangely enticing. This had pleased Maude immensely, as she was the one who pressed a homemade tin of it into his hands every year, but seemed to irritate Vi relentlessly... he gorged himself on the stuff, but refused to eat any of the cookies she made.
There was also eggnog, a thick, viscous holiday beverage that coated his tongue strangely, but tasted just like cinnamon milk. He currently had a carton of it clenched in one hand to wash down the last of Maude's fruitcake, his eyes fixed on his woman. She was restless. He could sense it in her, and he had been watching her warily. The last time she had gotten this way, she had insisted that they go shopping and had wrestled him into a hideously itchy sweater for the trip; he had returned an hour latter, sweating, covered in a rash and visibly trembling with unsuppressed rage and trauma. The mall, he decided then, was officially on the list of things he despised about Christmas.
"Stop pacing," he mumbled, and took another sip of eggnog. It was his third carton down, and he had a nice buzz going. "And before you ask, no. Whatever it is, no."