Page 17 of Mountain Man's Naughty Elf
"Laptops have batteries," I pointed out. "And it sounds like you are in desperate need of film education."
To my surprise, he actually got up and retrieved his computer from his desk. The battery indicator showed nearly full charge when he opened it.
"What other classics do you have?" I asked, scooting closer to see the screen, bringing the bottle of schnapps with me.
"Does It's a Wonderful Life count?" he asked.
"The most Christmassy of Christmas classics!" I exclaimed. "I'm shocked you have it."
"It was Rudy's doing," he admitted. "He sends me movies sometimes. Says I need 'cultural maintenance.'"
I laughed. "I like your brother more and more."
We settled back against the couch, the laptop balanced between us, as the movie began to play. The logs in the hearth crackled, sending shadows dancing across the walls, and outside the tempest raged, but in our little bubble of warmth, none of that seemed to matter.
As George Bailey's story unfolded, I found myself watching Pax more than the movie. His stoic expression betrayed him in micro-expressions—a tiny muscle jump in his jaw during the pharmacy scene, the barely-there crinkle at the corner of his eyes when Mr. Gower embraced George. Each reaction was like catching a glimpse of someone through a cracked door—gone almost before I could register it.
"You've seen this before," I observed during a quiet moment in the film.
"Once or twice," he admitted. "As a kid."
When Clarence showed George the world without him, I couldn't help but comment, "See? Everyone matters. Even grumpy mountain men."
He snorted. "I think you've had enough alcohol."
I realized we'd been steadily sipping throughout the movie. The bottle was now a third empty, and my limbs had gone deliciously heavy, my thoughts softening like cookie dough left in the sun. Every worry about Nolan had evaporated like snowflakes on warm skin, replaced by the gentle buzz of gingerbread schnapps and the fire's soothing radiance.
"Never enough cheer," I countered, my words only slightly slurred. "Speaking of which, we need a carol break."
I paused the film, ignoring his protest.
"Come on. One song. It's part of the full experience."
"I don't sing," he said flatly.
"Everyone sings! It's Christmas!"
"You seem to think saying 'it's Christmas' is a magical argument winner."
"Isn't it?" I grinned, then began to softly sing, "Silent night, holy night..."
Pax remained resolutely silent.
"All is calm, all is bright..."
Nothing.
I poked his arm. "Come on. You must know this one."
He sighed deeply, then muttered something barely audible.
"What was that?"
"Round yon virgin, mother and child," he said, slightly louder, not singing so much as speaking rhythmically.
"Holy infant so tender and mild," I continued, delighted.
"Sleep in heavenly peace," he finished, then gave me a look. "Happy?"
