#oh my gosh digging up pictures of clark gregg back at the turn of the century was a trip

[rainintheevening]

It's alright, just wait and see

Your string of lights is still bright to me

Oh, who you are is not where you've been

You're still an innocent

*

He happens to glance over at Grant at the exact moment the lights come on, and he sees the kid's jaw drop, hears the sharp intake of breath.

Phil glances up at the big tree, suddenly glowing like a fire in the swirling flakes, all warm white lights and oversized decorations, and he knows his smile is as wide and goofy as everyone else's, but then he looks back at Grant. They are standing close in the crowd, coat sleeves almost brushing, but he has gone still, barely breathing.

Grant's cheeks are rosy with the cold, and snowflakes melt on his nose, settle on his knitted cap. He stares up at the town Christmas tree, mouth still open, but even as he watches, Phil sees the boy's lips begin to curve up at the corners. In December snowfall, Phil sees Grant... melting.

The band has struck up a Christmas carol, and people are singing, but it's muffled somehow, fading into the background, as light reflects in Grant's eyes, golden glints in the dark, edged by lacy white catching in his black lashes. His face has gone all soft and shining, like Phil has never seen before; this is no quick laugh, no flash of a smile, this is different.

Phil looks back at the lights, at the little boy in front of them atop his father's shoulders, waving his hands and laughing as he pretends to fall, only to be caught by big mittened hands, set steady again.

A child, yes, that is what he sees in Grant's face! For the first time he sees the child, and he thinks suddenly of the child Grant had been, the little boy hiding and hoping and nursing his bruises, the fists pounding on the door, begging to be let in out of the cold.

An ache in Phil's chest, a wrenching behind his ribs, and he looks over at the teenager whom he cannot hoist onto his shoulders, he cannot carry home asleep in his arms, he cannot save from the demons that dog his steps, but he thinks I would. I would have. I would have saved you, I would have carried you home.

Grant does not seem to see Phil, he is spellbound by wonder, all pretence evaporated in the glow of Christmas lights through snow. And his eyes are wide as a three-year-old's, nothing but light, as if... as if that was all there ever had been.

Grant jumps slightly when Phil's arm comes around his shoulders, but he stills at Phil's husky whisper, "It's beautiful."

A nod, but Phil does not look down, not wanting to see the shadow back on the boy's face. Besides his vision has gone a little blurry. It takes a moment for him to notice how Grant has relaxed, leaning back into him. When he looks down, he can only see part of Grant's face, since the kid's head has come to rest on Phil's shoulder.

I'm here, he thinks of saying. You'll be alright. We can do this. I'll protect you, I'll fight for you. But he doesn’t want words to ruin this, he doesn't think any of that is the right thing to say. So he tucks it away inside, perhaps for another time.

They stand in the crowd, staring at the light shining through the snow, listening to each other breathe through the sound of the people singing.

*

Today is never too late to

Be brand new...