Many an hour of sweet happiness
Thanksgiving Day 1999
The majority of part demon ex-refugees decided to take the cruise liner to South America for a two week vacation seeing they prepaid for the experience anyway.
This left Thanksgiving dinner arrangements to be made by the purebred humans and demons who originally set off from California.
“Yeah sure, roll on up to my place,” Faith choked out between gritted teeth, rubbing at the bruise on her ankle caused by Doyle kicking her. “All,” she did a quick head count, Xander, Doyle’s ex, Wes, Whistler, Cordy, Murphy, Connor, Il Duce, (Connor’s Dad! Faith’s back was against the wall here) “Eight of ya, no problem.”
“That’s very kind of you, Faith.” Wesley stopped waving his hands in ‘No! No!’ gestures at Whistler and Cordelia behind Faith’s back.
Look where being nice landed her - playing chef for the multitude, Faith glared at Doyle. Stupid Powers That Be - The frozen turkey dinner for two Faith originally intended for her and Doyle to consume this evening would need to be miraculously stretched big time.
On the other hand, Connor McManus the Irish stud who rocked her world was back in her life. Faith cheered up instantly at the thought. Connor could cook fucking dinner and Doyle could do the dishes.
“Ya positive Faith’s not up the fuckin’ duff then?” Connor sought reassurance from Doyle once more.
“I made it up.” Doyle confirmed yet again.
“Ta be a hero-like?” Connor needed to be one-hundred percent certain he didn’t need to urgently make an honest woman out of his fiery young girl-friend.
“Yes, leave it would you?” How could he have been such a chivalrous moron? The cynical Doyle could die with embarrassment over the whole fool-hardy incident.
Harry didn't appear to think he was half-wit over the incident however once she heard of it. Doyle straightened his spine in pleasure, his ex-wife was gazing at him with respect.
In the end, once back at Faith’s place Harriet volunteered to cook Thanksgiving dinner. She knew a recipe that would make the turkey slices in the frozen ready-meals stretch.
Xander peeled potatoes in Faith’s kitchen for Harriet and admired how wonderful his girlfriend was in every way. Harriet didn’t nag him to make a commitment he wasn’t ready for. Harriet was socially tactful and never embarrassed him in public. Harriet was sexually experienced and appreciated Xander’s youthful energy in bed.
“Hey Harriet?” Xander tossed his peeled potatoes in a steel bowl, he held his potato peeler out of the way. “Love you, sweetheart.”
Harriet flushed pink with pleasure; Xander never told her that before. “Love you, too.”
Cordelia overheard and witnessed the whole nauseating saccharine incident as she entered the kitchen to put a bottle of wine in the refrigerator.
“Please put me to sleep, Wes, so I don’t have to witness the constant squicky factor of Xander Harris macking with Harry Sullivan.” Cordelia begged her best friend as she went back into the parlor where everyone else gathered.
“Only if you euthanize me in turn as I realize how some ships that pass in the night should never wind up in the same port.” Wesley made room for Cordelia on the sofa he sat on; he restrained himself from flinching as he witnessed Faith drop another ‘G’ and flirt with Il Duce without shame.
As a concerned parent Il Duce worried over young slayer Faith’s suitability to be his saintly serial killer son’s girlfriend.
The afternoon wore on leading to Il Duce overhearing certain things that led him to confront Connor in the spare bedroom minutes before dinner was served.
“Son, this hurts me to perhaps hurt you fuckin’ emotionally like by bringing this up but your lass is a dirty little bitch, she’s opened her legs at one time or another for half the males inside the house today. And by the way it’s very decent of wee Faith to have us all round for a feed.” Il Duce felt he must be fair.
“Aye Dad, I know.” Connor faced his father with an open cheerful honest grin. “Faith was being a prime candidate for being laid to rest in a Y shaped coffin if she got run over by a bus, she was a filthy little slapper, a common tart, a skanky ho, before she met me
, but Da, I sowed my wild oats and was a bit of a lad me-self before Faith and me hooked up, are you implying I should be operating under double standards like?”
“Now don’t be fuckin’ putting words inta my mouth, Connor.” Il Duce shrugged, their mother clearly had filled the lad’s head with feminist nonsense. Il Duce supposed he would be seeing a lot of Faith in Canada.
Downstairs in Faith’s basement the undead felines hissed in their cages as human footsteps came down the stairs.
“You’re only needing to wait one more month and you inherit this slum having out-lasted all your fecking peculiar relations.” Doyle protested hotly to Faith as they showed Wesley all the zombie cats. “Stop being without a plan, Faith, don’t toss away what you’ve worked so hard for to join the McManus clan in their tour around the Frozen North. Connor’s a good guy to be sure but not the only vigilante on the planet.”
“Indeed, Faith, you’ll be set for life if you inherit this house.” Wesley encouraged her. “It’ll be the land that will be valuable - are you worried as a slayer you won’t live long enough to enjoy the financial fruits of subdivision?”
“Screw the pair of ya, I’m not into negative thinking.” Faith folded her arms. Her brow creased as she weighed the conflicting life choices in front of her. Love or money?
Murphy after flipping a coin with Doyle in the kitchen over who should hit on Cordelia unimpeded by the others charms won the toss.
Cordelia witnessed the coin toss - Murphy and Doyle being too wasted to be discrete about it - and informed Murphy she would rather have a wart-hog come onto her.
"Stuff her then, hoity toity bitch." Murphy shrugged to Doyle. "Do you want to come down to the pub with me and have a pint? We can both be pulling a woman."
Doyle hesitated - Cordelia was gorgeous but Murphy was a mate.
"Yeah to be sure, we're bound to get invited back to a discerning female's for coffee if you don't get arrested first." Doyle pulled on his overcoat and prevented Murphy walking into a broom closet in confusion over it being the back door. "Luck of the Irish and all."
Noland's Meat Plant, South Boston, Wednesday, 29th December 1999 Octave Of The Nativity Of Our Lord, 5th Day comm. St. Thomas Becket
Christmas came and went from Faith’s life with tinsel, getting wasted on Christmas Eve at an Irish pub with Doyle and her meat plant co-workers, preventing a demon dressed as Santa Claus kidnapping tubby kids in his sack and a visit yesterday to the family lawyer to confirm her grandfather’s house was now hers.
Two days before New Years Eve, seeking entertainment in the last hour of her shift due to a conveyor belt breaking down in the next room and her department being in a stagnant lull for the past four hours, Faith picked up a newly made sausage, breaking it from its link and clenched it upright in her hand.
“Gonna blow it? Practicing for New Year’s Eve?” Faith’s foreman grinned across at her.
“Yeah that’s right,” Faith snorted, she threw another sausage over to her foreman. “Shove this one up your ass, that way you can practice for New Years, too, bud.”
Faith held the sausage under Mrs O’Leary’s mouth for impromptu karaoke. It was a dork city thing to do maybe, but Faith was so fucking bored she was seriously contemplating pole dancing in a minute to the Ricky Martin tune blaring over the speakers.
“Living La Vida Loca,” Mrs O’Leary sang off key and finished arranging polystyrene meat trays in flower shapes on a metal table to kill time.
“Living La Vida Loca,” Even Rosengurtle Baumgartner joined in the clowning around putting down the book she was reading about IVF advances making the need for war-mongering, hairy, smelly males obsolete.
A quiet hush fell over the plant floor, someone turned off Ricky Martin.
Striding towards Faith came a black clad, balaclava wearing figure.
Faith whipped off her protective cap and shook her hair free so it cascaded in an attractive style over her shoulders like something out of a shampoo commercial.
Connor pulled the balaclava off his head and placed it jauntily on Faith’s. The lovers embraced and kissed with fiery passion, deep affection and got slightly off showing off to the on-looking stunned meat plant workers.
Scooping Faith up in his muscular arms, Connor secured her in place as he carried her forwards. Faith slid her arms around his neck.
The Norland Meat Plant workers began cheering their approval as local hero Connor made for the door with the girl he loved in his arms.
“Oh for fucks sake, Lehane sinks in his arms and her arms end up in his sink, she needs him like a fish needs a fucking bicycle, the guy's a fucking wanted fugitive.” Rosengurtle alone remained unimpressed at the cliché breeder display taking place before her.
“Yeah, but why is Connor McManus a wanted fugitive?” The foreman reminded her.
Rosengurtle raised her meaty hands high in the air and clapped them powerfully together again and again. “Way to go, Faith, way to go!!!”
AN: Thank you time
Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and recced this story.
The song the chapter titles came from…
Black Velvet Band a traditional ballad about a young Irishman duped by a pretty thief and transported to Australia as a convict because of it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_F7MQazYDE as performed by a Boston band on St Patrick's day.
If DaveT hadn’t kept on my case things might have been grim for me ever finishing this story or any other. Thanks Dave.
Some kind mystery person has nominated me for a White Knight Awards for writing Xander well as a supporting character. WOW! Thank-you.
Thank you Muses Inspiration for your lovely artwork that I asked you to do because I always wondered what Faith and Doyle would look like in the Boondock Saints movie. Please review her because it’s very pretty and she’s very talented.
Thank you Hotpoint for all County Wexford info.
Thank you Jennylal for general Irish info.
And a big thank you to the mystery soul who nominated this fic for the 2007 COA.