Date: 2007-12-27 06:57 am (UTC)
Francis was not only awake, but engaged in Christmas activities of his own. Specifically, he'd realized that it was probably about time he sucked it up and wrote a letter home to his wife, full of longing and sighs of loneliness and all that trash. If he made it good enough, maybe it would keep her happy for another few months, and that would be a few more months that he didn't have to think of her.

My darling Priscilla, he began.

Christmas is in the air, and snow is on the ground, but all I can think of is the winter in my heart and how dreadful, how dreary everything here is without you. Darling, I miss you so terribly that I simply ache when I think of you. I look into my mirror and think about your...

This was about where he got stuck. He couldn't think of a single nice thing to say about her. The letter was already horribly tacky as it was, and completely fictional (except for the part about aching when he thought of her, anyway), but he just didn't know how to continue.

The knock at the door was welcome. "Oh, thank God," he muttered to himself, and went to open it. His face went slack when he saw who was at the door, his brows rising towards his hairline. "Charles? Hi. Oh-- you've got--" He blinked sharply, spotting the boxes, and quickly stepped back to hold the door open. "Come in, come in."
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