Christmas Specials (England x Reader)

“Okay, bye guys! See ya! ‘Till next Christmas!” You grinned and waved your hand like a metronome, watching your grandparents, aunts, uncles, and other relations head out to their cars, taking certain leftovers from dinner and leaving behind a tower of gifts. You had watched it slowly grow throughout the evening as more family members arrived, and your skilled mom had managed to Tetris each box and bag so that it took up the least amount of space and nothing would be broken. It was now a perfect pyramid of presents.
Score one for free time, eh?
Deciding that ten in the evening was the perfect pajama time, because a gift tower like that is one that should be avoided until Christmas Day (you already knew that most of your gifts would be clothes) you retreated to your bedroom in search of warm sleepwear, because Christmas sweaters are great until your odd aunt knits you one from the itchiest possible thread she could find.
She also had the strange habit of calling you dearie all the time…
“Phoof.” You faceplanted into your pillow because you could, planning to sleuth around for clothing afterwards, but your butt began to sing a chorus of Ode to Joy before you could do any real sleuthing.
It took you a minute before you realized that your dream of a singing arse was not coming true, and that noise was indeed your cellular device which had been stowed in your back pocket. Why Ode to Joy, you wondered?
You just didn’t know.
“Yellow?” You answered, face still half-buried in the puffy amazingness that was your favorite pillow. That thing was one feather away from being able to grow wings of its own, but it was sure comfy.
“HEY, (NAME), DUDETTE!”
Ah yes. Alfred Jones. Voice of New York traffic on a Friday afternoon. “Yo, Al. Whaddup?” Oh, you knew what was up, but it was still polite to ask. He was going to invite you to another Christmas party, you would start to decline, and he would get so irritatingly convincing that you would either give in or have to hang up right in the middle of a
But no, you turned out to be wrong. You figured this out when a loud, sniveling cry cut through whatever Alfred had been about to say. “(NA-*hic*-AME)!”
“Whoa, Al! Are you crying? What’s wrong!?!” Suddenly you were sitting upright again, motherly instincts tempting you to make your voice go all soft and reassuring and the like, because Alfred never cried.
“N- Iggs, get off of- yes, it’s her, now go back to your British corner-” There were a few incoherent grumbles and you heard another loud sob, but this one was muffled. Your American friend let out an exasperated sigh into the phone. “I’m fine, (Name), but Artie over there is having some sort of weird, like…breakdown. He was happy just a second ago, but now he’s-” Another muffled sob, this one followed by several others- “that.”
“Any idea what caused it?”
“Nope. Think you could come over and smack some sense into the British dude?”
“Meh, sure.”
You said your goodbyes and hung up, slipping on a nearby pair of flats because they were just sitting there anyway. “Mooom, I’m gonna go help a friend with something, be right back!” You called as you looked around for your keys. Finding them on your bedside table for whatever reason, you headed towards the door.
“The weird ones with the different accents?” Your mom called back, playing Jenga with the presents in the living room as she tried to sort them by receiver.
“Yeah!”
Cue the snort from your younger brother’s room.
“Kay, have fun.”
And so you left.

About fifteen minutes later you pulled up outside the house of your four best guy friends in your Volks Wagon Beetle, because Slug Bugs are the best kinds of cars and your parents couldn’t really afford much else, and approached the front door with caution. Normally a wide variety of…interesting noises decided to take place behind those doors as soon as you knocked, but today you could only hear Arthur’s wails of despair. Not to be confused with Alfred’s whales, which was an odd story for another day. You guessed that Matthew (the youngest of the four) was up in his room, trying to block out the somewhat drunken-sounding scream-cries, and Francis (the oldest, and oh how he’d remind you that he was) was off trying to comfort him…or, more likely, off on yet another movie date.
You had just raised a fist to knock when the door swung open, revealing an exhausted-looking Al. “He’s in the basement…I’ll be upstairs.”
Their basement was pretty much all dark except for the light of a TV screen, which was rolling the credits of the very well-written and really quite amazing British television show Doctor Who, which you had missed tonight’s installment of because family comes first.
Or so your mom kept saying, but you had seen the soap operas she called “important work” when she needed to get out of doing the laundry.
Arthur was curled into a ball of misery when you came in, and he looked an absolute wreck.
You paused, making the durr hurr hurr face to yourself for a second before going to comfort him.
Well…comfort him…your style.
You sat down on the couch at his feet and leaned way over, grabbing the poor man by the trembling shoulders and yanking him upright until your noses were just inches apart.
“IGGY! CALM YO’ SEXY BRITISH ARSE!” You yelled at the top of your lungs, violently shaking him until the sobbing had been reduced to sniffles and big, watery green eyes. You took a moment to notice that his hair was even messier than usual, his face and eyes pink from crying, and for whatever reason he was in his punk attire like he wore to movie nights.
You began to wonder if that was his trademark fandom outfit. You also began to wonder how raggedy you must have looked in your (least favorite color) Christmas sweater that had a large, semi-creepy Santa smack in the middle (courtesy of your aunt) and old grey sweatpants.
But now was not the time for fashion. You had something British to deal with here.
“(N-N-Name)…” Arthur hiccupped again, “he…he…WAAAAAAAAAHH!” Arthur tried to bury his face in the soaked pillow you now saw he was curled up around.
“ARTIE! GET YOURSELF TOGETHER MAN!” You raged, shaking him again. “WHAT HAPPENED!?!”
“M-M-Matt S-Smith…r-re-regenerated…”
Suddenly the universe froze around you. No…not that…anything but that…
“No…N-N-No…I don’t believe you!”
Iggy reached for the remote, rewinding back to the beginning of the episode, and clicked play.

Roughly an hour later, maybe an hour and a half…

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” You and Arthur chorused, clutching each other and crying like babies.
Alfred, casually wearing a nice and large pair of soundproof headphones plugged into his iPod while goofing around on his laptop, couldn’t help but notice an ad for the new season of Sherlock returning on New Year’s.
“Hm.” He shrugged to himself. “Wonder what they’ll do then.”

Extra: About a week later…

You and Arthur sat in front of the television yet again, stunned into silence.
Because holy crap.
Two years you had waited for this, and you had not been disappointed.
But holy crapdazzle.
You just…
You couldn’t…
Your jaw hung wide open, and though your gaze was still fixed on the TV, you had a feeling Arthur’s was too.
Because what the crap.
You both just sat there speechless until something dropped upstairs and broke the spell. Simultaneously the two of you erupted into what can only be described as ASDFGHJKL;ZXCVBNMHUFGEAKWRETEUGEOLHGEIHGEAUGEJEGHOFIHGENGUFUFOYTLH. Or just asdfghjkl for short.

Alfred, who had refused to take off the earmuffs for his own safety from start to finish of the episode, bent to pick up his iPod again. “Well, that answers that.” He concluded.

Your feels were never the same again.