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Bayonetta just adores the holidays.
Any excuse for lush decadence and new couture was fine by her, and there were so many sprinkled across the human calendar that rarely did she need to find cause for some extra cheer. Boxing Day, Samhein, Diwali, Mardi Gras — she was never one to turn her nose up at a party, regardless of host or circumstance.
Jeanne, however, can't be bothered with the things at all. Oh, she lets Bayonetta dress her in leather and silk and drag her around to various parties, but she spends most of them drinking wine in a corner, practically sulking and hissing at any poor soul who sends a smile her way.
Her excuses are as laughable as her grousing.
"I share nothing in common with rabbits save libido, and even then I certainly don't see the need to celebrate by laying eggs all over the place like a neglected hen."
"I have no interest in my wardrobe options being limited to a hideous green to adhere to what a mob of sycophants think is festive. If anyone pinches me they will end up under Angel Slayer's tires, mark my words."
"Cereza, time is even more of a construct for us Umbra. Why would I care about a silly little horse representing the year? I will have some dumplings if you're making them, however."
To Jeanne, the only redeeming thing about holidays were the sales, and even then it takes all of Bayonetta's considerable charm and no small amount of amorous persuasion to actually get her into the city to take advantage of them.
Still, she doesn't let Jeanne's prickly temperament impede her fun. Very little can ruin a holiday for her, and she is more than happy to smile and steal and seduce her way into fruity drinks and pop tunes and kitschy gifts with or without her partner.
Except on Valentine's Day.
On paper, it's practically designed to tickle her fancy — wine and sex and cute stuffed animals abound — but she loathes it with a passion normally reserved for cockroaches and crying babies.
The root of her disdain is painfully infantile.
The Umbra once observed a surprisingly similar holiday, involving witches gifting each other heartfelt trinkets, drinking mulled wine, and dancing under the moonlight, all in the name of strengthening clan bonds. It was a running joke that for one night a year the training barracks would echo with screams for entirely different reasons, and plenty of trees within the nearby forest bore carved initials from women claiming the spot after a successful 'conquest.'
The most important aspect of the affair involved a public declaration of affection for a witch's chosen Sister — a poetic proclamation espousing her best traits along with a commitment to watching her back through the fires of Inferno itself.
In her youth, Bayonetta had longed to take part in the festivities, eavesdropping on other girls planning their declarations and sneaking wine from abandoned cups when their owners inevitably wandered away for a more private celebrations.
She used to practice how she would react if declared to, hand over her heart in her barren cell, desire so strong it made her teeth ache — all of it an impossible dream for the outcast.
"It's silly," Bayonetta confesses during commercial, legs slung over Jeanne's lap, squeezed in a chair definitely not intended for two. She can't even recall how they landed on the topic. Jeanne hums, listening intently, one hand rubbing absentminded circles in the small of her back. Bayonetta is almost certain they are Umbra sigils. The training they beat into her tended to appear in the most mundane moments, these days.
Jeanne's quiet voice drives another rapier through her heart.
"I would have declared for you, if…"
Bayonetta purses her lips and turns up the volume as the reality programme returns from commercial, signaling an end to the conversation. She hadn't meant to divulge all that this evening. She swallows her mortification, eager to move on.
Jeanne is not so easily dissuaded. She snatches the remote, switching the TV off before hurling the little chrome clicker out the open window. A yelp sounds from the street.
"For Sheba's sake, the theatrics—"
"I would have, Cereza."
Bayonetta looks at her, enflamed in her defense even five hundred years later without a threat in sight, and knows it to be true.
All she would have had to do was shyly confess an interest, and young Jeanne would have donned her best and declared for her at the foot of the Clock Tower for all the clan to see — and taken fifty lashes there too, blood spilled across the stone for daring to consort with the impure child.
It is not a reality that would have ever come to pass. Bayonetta spent her young adult years flirting and fucking her way through the eligible denizens of Vigrid, convincing herself her feelings for Jeanne were more childhood fancy and misplaced envy than heartfelt affection, and by the time she pulled her head from her arse and they began a proper courtship, there had been precious little time before the Witch Hunts took everything from them.
Still. The sentiment does wonders for her sensitive heart.
"I know, darling."
She tucks Jeanne's hair behind her ear, platinum strands pleasantly silken against her fingertips. She was surprised at how much she favored Jeanne with long hair when the other witch decided to grow it out again. Sometimes Jeanne lets her braid it, and she pretends they are young again, bashfully indulging in the feeling of each other's power and affection.
"Now go fetch the remote you so boorishly tossed out our window, or I'll be rather cross with you."
Jeanne sighs, head falling back into the chair with a mock weariness.
"You must understand what an impossible request you've made of me. You see, this horrid beast has taken refuge in my lap, and I fear for my life I were to move."
"Horrid beast? How dare you!"
"Hear how she roars — ah!"
Bayonetta skitters clever hands up and down Jeanne's sides, reducing her to tearful laughter. She is loveliest when in tears, Bayonetta has always thought. She delights in them now.
"Feel her claws! Tremble in fear!"
"Mercy, mercy!"
"A horrid beast wouldn't respond to such pathetic begging — mfph!"
Jeanne kisses her without grace, their teeth knocking together as she silences Bayonetta's taunts. It's not a particularly shrewd diversion, but it is always an effective one. She really can't help but melt into her.
Even now, years spent in relative safety and domestic bliss, far from judgement of clan or kin or gods, Jeanne's easy affection makes her giddy with a youthful exuberance. How long had she dreamed of this — and how surreal for that dream to be realized.
Jeanne has gone and made her soft. Horribly unfair.
"You aren't getting out of this that easily," she warns, threading insistent fingers through the hair at Jeanne's nape. She straddles her properly, tugging her head up in a worshipful position. Jeanne plays the willing supplicant, hands stroking appreciatively over her thighs and hips.
"I hope not."
She's largely forgotten the conversation by the morning, a night of lovemaking (and a carefully duct-taped remote) chasing away any lingering shadows from her past.
So she's surprised, and confused, when she wakes up not next to Jeanne's snoring, drooling, enchanting visage, but that of a small stuffed tiger.
A handful of blinks doesn't dispel the image, so she assumes it is real and not a hanger-on of some odd dream. She pokes it with the tip of a pink painted fingernail. It falls over and does little else.
It's adorable. Black fur with bright fuchsia stripes and huge eyes, it is garish in an utterly delightful way. There's a little lavender box around its neck, too — a gift, then. She grins and hugs it to her chest. Its fur is wonderfully soft, and it smells faintly of cotton candy. She adores it.
So much so that she falls asleep again holding it, and doesn't wake until the afternoon sunlight caresses her eyelids.
Then it's a luxurious shower, made better by a new bottle of her favorite shampoo, followed by a decadent chocolate croissant for brunch from her favorite patisserie, left on the kitchen counter alongside a new pair of heels from a designer she had mentioned a fondness for in passing.
She's licking her fingers and admiring them on her feet when she dials the number she memorized on a portentous bus ride back from Isla Del Sol. Jeanne picks up on the second ring.
"Is there something I should know about?"
"What? Cereza, speak plain."
"All these gifts, dear. Are they an apology for the remote? Or something more serious?"
Jeanne huffs a laugh, voice kept low. Bayonetta can hear muffled voices in the background. She must have stepped out in the hallway to take her call.
"Tis the season," Jeanne replies, almost mockingly, but Bayonetta knows her well enough to hear a thread of doubt in her voice, seeking approval. She doesn't know whether to be miffed or amused.
"Years of begging you to be less of a grinch, and you've gone to all this trouble to celebrate the singular holiday I cannot stand?
"Did you like the heels?" Jeanne asks innocently.
"I'll enjoy them more when you're taking them off me tonight. That is, if you answer my question Mistress Sourpuss."
She can hear the eye roll through the receiver. "Perhaps I've finally caught that holiday bug you're always droning on about."
"And perhaps pigs can fly."
"You have been known to truss up a featherbrain or two in your time."
Before Bayonetta can respond, an insistent knock sounds at the door.
"You ought to answer that," Jeanne advises — then, muffled, saying something to someone else. A typical Ms. D'Arc dressing down it sounds like, which makes Bayonetta grin as she goes to get the door.
Five minutes later she shuts it, ears ringing and clutching a paper card in her fist. On the front is a cartoon duck with the caption 'You're DUCKING Awesome, Valentine!' in block letters. On the back, the original names have been whited-out and written over, so it now reads 'To: Cereza, From: Your Valentine.'
"Well?" Jeanne prompts, done telling off whoever bothered her and barely holding back her palpable mirth.
"A singing telegram, and a re-gifted card you no doubt received from one of your students with an adolescent crush." Bayonetta pauses, thoughtful. "I'm impressed at how quickly you've thrown all this together, though I question your taste. Luka, in a penguin costume?"
"Did he remember the dance? I'll flay him alive if not."
"He has two left feet, but he did his best."
It took all of her restraint not to respond as he waddled about in a Rodin penguin special, resplendent with paper mâché lingerie, as he badly sang a pun filled ballad with euphemisms even she found a bit vulgar. He'd kept his chin high as he finished with a spin and jazz hands, which she had to commend him for.
She is desperate to know how Jeanne convinced him to humiliate himself like that, especially since she knows he must have taken the subway to their apartment with his moped still out for repairs.
"I knew I should have asked Enzo. That man at least has rhythm. It can't be helped now, I suppose. I was aiming to give you an authentic holiday experience, hence the telegram and card — which I'll have you know was from a teacher, not a student."
"That gym teacher who has a crush on you, I'd wager."
"We're colleagues. It was a friendly gesture. She gave them out to most of the staff."
"She spent all of your promotion party staring at your arse and complimenting your muscle definition."
"It's called athletic appreciation."
"It's called wanting to bend you over the bleachers and fuck you, darling. Not that I blame her. You make quite a picture in those tight little pantsuits you're so fond of."
Cereza pins the card to their fridge as she speaks, next to a recent picture of them on vacation at the beach and the a drawing of an octopus done by Enzo's daughter for their anniversary.
"Is that why you insisted of fucking me during the party?" There's subtle gratification in Jeanne's voice. "I didn't peg you as the jealous type."
"Not jealous, dear. Inspired. I would have offered to let her watch, but you're so prudish about those things."
"Ha! If only you'd seen me in the Parisian salons at their best….but beyond it crossing every possible professional boundary, I simply have no interest in her, or anyone, seeing you in such a….vulnerable position."
"Ah. So you're the jealous type."
"You're impossible, Cereza."
Bayonetta smirks, lazily twirling a short lock of her hair. Despite her amusement at Jeanne's expense, she is quite serious in her reply.
"You needn't be. You know I couldn't imagine my life without you, Jeanne."
She thinks she hears her breath catch over the line, but it could be static.
"Or I, you."
"I've gathered as much from all your gifts today. Seriously, how have you arranged all of this?"
"Magic," Jeanne deadpans. Then, "Along with half a dozen energy drinks and several insistent phone calls."
She must have stayed up the whole night after Bayonetta nodded off against her back, buried under several blankets. No wonder she hadn't woken to any of Jeanne's morning alarms. It was truly a foolish thing to do, especially in the middle of week during a particularly busy time of the semester — Bayonetta feels warm all over, and so, so loved.
"Careful, or you'll be the first witch to end up in Inferno via heart attack."
"I'm not so sure. I recall Mistress Edora keeling over when I challenged you for the throne."
It speaks volumes to how far they've come that they can joke about such things without either of them clamming up or breaking down in tears.
"Mr. Jameson!" Jeanne's voice cracks like a whip. "I suggest you return to class this instant, unless you wish to suffer another Friday detention." Then, gentler than most people would think her capable of, "I'm sorry, Cereza, I really have to go. I'll see you back home."
"See you," she responds to the click of the receiver.
It takes a long time for her to stop smiling like a fool.
Jeanne doesn't disappoint when she arrives home after work, bearing even more presents — a half dozen chocolate mice, two bottles of Dom Perignon, a bouquet of fresh cut red roses, and her favorite Thai takeout. She even lights a candle as they stand at the kitchen counter to eat an early dinner, staring at each other like lovestruck mavens and talking about nothing of consequence.
Bayonetta leans across the marble to steal a bite of Jeanne's panang curry, initiating a lengthy fork fight that ends with her the righteous victor. She chews the stolen bite slowly, savoring her triumph, and is not shy in gloating to Jeanne's glaring countenance.
When she attempts a retaliatory theft of a shrimp from Bayonetta's tom yum goong, she activates Witch Time to crowd her against the counter, hands gripping the top close enough for her thumbs to brush Jeanne's hips. She really does make frilly, stuffy pantsuits practically sinful.
Jeanne wipes a bit off sauce off her cheek and pops it into her mouth, perfectly content at their forced proximity.
"The Pride of the Umbra, nothing more than a lowly thief. And a poor one, at that. Tsk. Tsk."
"And for her next heist, she's set her eyes on the outcast's heart," Jeanne declares, wrapping her arms around Bayonetta's shoulders. She denies her a kiss, letting warm lips land on the apple of her cheek instead. Jeanne grouses, even as she presses another to her jaw.
"That was a terrible line."
"And here I'd been working on it all day. Drat."
"Any better ones you'd like to try?"
Jeanne nuzzles her cheek, pretending to ruminate on the question.
"Did it hurt? When you feel from heaven?"
"A cliche and an affront to our very nature."
"Do you have a map? Because I am getting lost in your eyes."
"Aesir might resurrect if he hears you speaking such nonsense."
"If I could rearrange the alphabet, I would put U and I together."
That gets a snort out of her. "Did you ask your students for these dreadful lines? I seem to recall you were something of a writer in our childhood."
It's true, much to a young Jeanne's chagrin. Part of her training as Heiress imposed compulsory hours hunched over old desks with ink and quill, scratching missives to Umbra scattered about the globe. She often bemoaned that particular duty, complaining of stiff hands and pointless annotation as she scrubbed the ink out of her hair in a nearby creek before they would spar.
Bayonetta had secretly loved watching Jeanne write. Those long, elegant hands moving with a confident flourish across the page, face set in the kind of intense concentration that never failed to inspire her training in some way, or at the very least get her hot under the collar.
And the writing itself had an austere loveliness to it. Jeanne wasn't one for precocious word play or flowery nonsense — just clear and concise communication, rendered on the page in a careful hand by the the person Bayonetta respected and admired most.
She's fallen in love with that side of Jeanne all over again recently, watching her work on a new novel focused on Umbra history. More than once she's found herself standing still in their apartment, fixated on the movement of Jeanne's hand as she scribbled noted into a cheap composition book, pen cap between her teeth and hair pulled away from the sharp lines of her beautiful face.
Jeanne stiffens, and Bayonetta is puzzled by such a strong reaction to an innocent tease.
"Darling?"
"I have one last gift," Jeanne murmurs, nervous hands tapping down the length of Bayonetta's spine. "Or, well, something I'd like to show you."
"How exciting," Bayonetta says carefully, letting Jeanne lead her to the bedroom. Her nerves are palpable, and Bayonetta finds herself growing antsy as Jeanne directs her to sit on the bed, going to the closet to retrieve the final surprise.
When she emerges with an ancient, leather-bound journal, Bayonetta's feels those nerves transfer to herself and multiply.
They rarely talk about it. Jeanne's centuries of isolation, and the boxes of her journals from those desolate years stacked in the back of their closet. Bayonetta strangled her curiosity the day they moved in together, vowing to never touch them without Jeanne's permission— determined not to ruin this precious thing between them now that they had a proper chance at it.
Jeanne sits next to her, the warmth of her thigh a familiar comfort, and carefully thumbs open to a page three quarters of the way through before handing it over.
The ink is so faded that it is near impossible to read, and the pages threaten to crumble into dust at the slightest handling, but Bayonetta can make out enough of it to understand what she is reading. The date at the corner of the page is damning. Her eyes widen.
"You were planning to declare for me."
It's more speech than poem, but pure romance bleeds between the syllables, Cereza's name written in a reverent hand.
"After I became Elder. I wanted…" She trails off, but Bayonetta hears all her hopes in the silence. A life, together. She'd wanted it too, even when the bars of her cell taunted her with the impossibility of such a dream.
She sets the notebook carefully aside. Those silver shot eyes she waited five hundred years to see again are filled with tears, and she knows hers are much the same. She strokes a thumb over the muscle of Jeanne's clenched jaw, feeling herself horribly choked by emotion.
"Maman used to force me to attend every minor festivity, pushing me to smile and play with the girls who were mercilessly cruel to my best friend." She reaches, and Bayonetta meets her halfway, tangling their fingers together. "All those years after I had little reason for revelry on my own. And when we finally meant to celebrate out first holiday together —" She stops, and they both take a breath, the wounds of that nightmarish journey into Inferno not yet scarred over.
"It's silly," she declares, wiping at her eyes in a flippant gesture. "I never hated the holidays, Cereza. I just saw no point in them without you, and now…well. A childish anxiety. As if allowing myself to celebrate with you, the universe might then devise to take you away again." She laughs, a small, nervous sound that doesn't suit. "Utter nonsense."
Bayonetta lets her head rest against Jeanne's shoulder, playing with her fingers. There, an old scar on her knuckles from punching a girl once who tried to take Cheshire from her, here, a beauty mark Bayonetta had loved to kiss in mock courtship gestures before she was brave enough to admit the truth of her feelings.
She kisses it now, holding Jeanne's hand to her heart.
"There's only one god left, Jeanne, and I will deal with her too if I have to. We've wasted enough lifetimes. Don't you agree?"
Jeanne sniffles, hiding a fresh wave of tears in the crown of Bayonetta's head.
"I did say it was foolish."
"Jeanne."
"Yes?"
"Would you still declare for me?"
Jeanne takes a deep breath, and pulls back far enough to look Bayonetta in the eyes. She cups her cheek, both of them trembling. The energy between them is almost shy, something she didn't think was still possible after so many years together.
It reminds her of their first kiss, in a way. She is glad she can remember it again.
"I love you, Cereza. You are the strongest, smartest, most resilient witch I know, and I am proud to declare for you."
Bayonetta isn't ashamed of her tears for once. She can't be, with how tenderly Jeanne wipes them away.
"The feeling is mutual. Obviously."
"Obviously," Jeanne laughs, and then kisses her.
It hardly matters, of course. She's known the depth of Jeanne's feelings since she sealed her in the gem, and has gotten to luxuriate in them since finding each other again centuries later. A declaration changes nothing, means nothing without a clan to hear it.
Still. The sentiment does wonders for her sensitive heart.
She melts into her, obviously.
FIN