Disclaimer and A/N:
Characters with familiar names aren't mine; plot is but it's worth zilch. :)

Hi everyone. In the spirit of giving, wanted to share this holiday Bonkai fic, which'll be short multi-chapter. It was supposed to be part of 'In Kaleidoscope' but it grew too long. A few of you might guess which world the Bonkai here belongs to. I took the liberty of changing the names a little, hope it's not too jarring. Enjoy.

'TIS THE SEASON

Chapter I

Sometimes I really hate my relatives. Enough that every once in a while, I imagine getting a call. I'm at the office, catching up on shit paperwork the junior associates get saddled with, and the voice on the other line is gravely, old, tired, the result of too many long years sitting in his late-model squad car overloading on stale donuts and cheap coffee.

He's saying, "You Malachai Parker?"

And I reply, "Yes?" in my best 'I'm a lawyer now and barely have the time to take your call' tone.

"I'm afraid I have bad news. Your entire family was just in a terrible accident."

"No," I gasp.

"Yes. Runaway yacht."

"I'm-what? Officer, we're not a boating family. We're more...mountain climbers and hikers."

"It was on the highway, son. Truck was towing it. Not enough chains. Afraid all that's left of your folks are scattered parts."

And of course, in my fantasy, I'm sad, right? Sure. I'm not completely heartless. For one, that's a lot of grim clean-up work for some poor souls at the start of winter season in Oregon. Snow and blood and body bits? No, thanks. And two, I wouldn't want to be the funeral director in charge of arranging the wake for a dismembered family of nine.

Usually, my daydreams never go that far. I never make it to the funeral. Maybe I don't have enough motivation. Because sometimes, I don't mind having seven siblings. On occasion, I can even stomach my old man, even though he's conservative as fuck and hates any advancements in the modern world since, oh, 1994.

"Oh, would you look at that? Mal, you're standing under the mistletoe!"

But my mom? Oh, yeah. For example, right just then, I could see her getting electrocuted by the excessively lit, fifteen foot overdone Fraser tree she put up the week before. Suffocated by their sprightly branches. I'd stand over her coffin, trying to convince the sea of black mourners behind me that my tears were all for sadness, and not joy.

"Maddie," I could hear my dad grumbling. "You don't have to be so loud."

What's this? My dad, actually trying to stick for me?

"Nonsense. I'm practically whispering."

The gleeful, tipsy voice is behind me, carrying clear and cutting through a dozen conversations in the house. I'm reminded not only how much I hate family gatherings, but how I dislike the holiday ones in particular. Nothing more tedious than everyone catching up that one time during the year when everything's bright red or bright green and tinkly and people are full of ideas on how to brag about their latest promotion and the new car they bought at a steal from the local dealership. Or conversely, brimming with sob stories about how they got their toe amputated and lost half their investment in a timeshare in Florida.

"You're not," I say, tipping back the glass of wine in my hand. I stare at the tall ceilings sporting wooden beams, envisioning one falling loose and hitting my mother on the head. "Not even a little. Why do you even have mistletoe? You're a month early for that, mom."

"Spoken like a grouch. It's never too early for romance."

"Where's the romance in tiny plastic sprigs?"

"Now, Mal," my dad cuts in appeasingly, while mom starts foaming at the mouth. "You know your mother only uses the real stuff."

"The idea," she grumbles. "Of having spontaneous displays of affection between two people influenced by something fake and manufactured, polluting our landfills and our own hearts..."

Yes. My mother, certifiable. Maybe the beam could fall on me instead. Why not? Quicker way to end the evening. Drinking myself into a stupor didn't hold any promise since I didn't relish the thought of spending the night at my parents. At least if I got hurt, traumatic brain injury might let me escape by way of an ambulance.

"Where's your date?" my mom asks with her hazy smile in place.

I shove one hand in pocket, waving my glass around. "Didn't bring one, mom. Never do anymore."

Not since that one holiday party she hosted where I brought my college girlfriend home to meet everyone and dear mother decided the best way to get to know her was by outlining all the various mental and musculoskeletal illnesses that my grandparents, a few aunts, uncles, and the stray distant cousins had succumbed to. Didn't help that my girlfriend at the time was a hypochondriac. I finally figured out that she liked me mostly because I never ever got sick and kept up my hygiene pretty well, unlike most of my fraternity brothers.

"Shame," my mother says, but her murmur is distracted, and I see her eyes losing some of that fuzziness as she looks around. Then she's shrugging, and leaning up to give me a peck on the cheek as she points to the mistletoe above our heads.

Luckily, I don't really embarrass easy but my dad, again to my shock, shrugs in apology at me before he mumbles something about more pigs-in-a-blanket and beer.

He ambles off, I swig some more wine, and my mom disappears, but not before she pats my shoulder with that happy face she gets the few times I do something that really pleases her.

"So glad you're wearing it!" she says, looking down at my bright red turkey sweater. The one that my twin sister Joss made for me, a few months back when she was in her last trimester of pregnancy and on a knitting kick. She'd made one for every member of the family and bullied all of us into wearing her creations for Thanksgiving this year.

Her husband was the only hold out-good man, but dumb. I see him hiding out in the kitchen, wearing a plain but neat button down and sending Joss nervous looks every once in a while. Whatever she's got planned for payback, it won't be pretty.

I'd entertained taking a stand like my brother-in-law, but in the end, it wasn't Joss's threats that made me throw in the towel.

"Yeah," I say now, cool and aloof as I try to follow my mother's gaze around the room. "Figured it's my best protection."

My mom blinks. "Against what?"

Sure, as if it wasn't obvious.

She's skipping her eyes everywhere again, and I try to anticipate who she's trying to throw at me now. They land on a willowy brunette in the corner of the room, surrounded by equally attractive girls. All of them sipping away from their stems and smiling like they're nice, normal, classy. I can't see myself with any of them, although the brunette's eyeing me back now, her eyes sparkly and hair glossy but without any of that polished edge like she's the high maintenance type. Not a fan of those.

My interest perks for a second, especially when I notice my mom's attention lingering on the woman, just before she looks away quickly. Nice try.

So damn obvious. Here it was, yet another Parker holiday gathering with most of my parents' closest friends in attendance, along with said friends' families, and I couldn't remember a time in the last ten years where my mother failed to produce some magical specimen of female to convince me that, hey, grass is greener on the other side. The side that meant I'd have to shed my independence and manhood and attach myself at the hip to a woman already gold-stamped with the Madeline Parker seal of approval.

Across the room, mystery brunette tips her wine glass to me, looking coy and naughty both, and my indignation wanes inversely to the level of intrigue.

All right, so maybe I could play along for a little while.

And maybe I should've joined the ranks of Joss's husband, and skipped the ugly sweater.

-x-O-x-

I'm at the appetizer table debating between chicken liver pates and mini potato pancakes when I figure, why not both? And then, hey, throw in a cheese straw while I'm at it. The table that Maddie Parker's set up is enormous, every inch of it covered with platters that are worth me channeling an anteater for.

It's not like I'm here to impress anyone, anyway.

Grams shows up, hovering at my elbow, and I can feel the judgment rolling off her in waves.

"Bonnie Sheila Bennett," she says in that familiar disapproving tone. "We're here to mingle, not gorge."

I ponder that, and in all seriousness when I look at my plate, it's pretty obvious that my grandmother's statement is just not true. She looks pointedly at my hips and I do what I always do best, ignore her. Instead of answering, I just stuff a mini potato pancake in my mouth and chew thoughtfully.

"Hey, isn't that Lu?" I ask after a few seconds of her sniffing like she's offended.

The blond man ambles up the next second, easy grin in place as he winks at me. I'm relieved to see a friendly face, especially since I just bumped into his twin minutes ago and all Livvie could do was stare at me blankly, as if she had no recollection of years' worth of summers spent roaming Portland together. Then when Grams had tried to jog her memory, the most we'd gotten back was a bored, "Oh, right, didn't recognize you without the malnourished look."

Bitch.

"Glad you could make it," Lu said, leaning in for a hug, spending just a little too long at it and earning a stink eye from me in the process.

Grams, meanwhile, beams at us.

"Seen my mom yet?" he asks, sticking so close to my side that I wonder if he's trying to steal my plate.

Grams subtly moves us away from the table by steering my elbow like I'm still in grade school and in need of supervising. Lu follows us and out of the corner of my eye, catch sight of a slim man, carrot-topped, dressed in jeans and plaid and watching us like a hawk.

We fall into small talk just like other little groups all around us. Mingling, just like Grams wanted. A Maddie and Josh Parker gathering isn't one unless there's holiday music in the background, and their speakers are keeping at it steady, not even interrupted by ads since they've apparently embraced Pandora in full. I like it. It's never really the holidays until I've heard a few notes of 'Frosty' in the air.

Every once in a while, though, someone random cringes at a couple notes that ring out high and clear. Grinches. Admittedly, it's been years since I've come along with Grams to this annual holiday tradition, so I might be nostalgic.

Plus, who doesn't like a little holiday spirit?

I'm enjoying myself, exactly like I'd imagined when I first agreed to come out. Oregon wasn't my first choice to spend the season, but I knew from the letters and a couple Skype sessions that my grandmother was lonely. Over in Mystic Falls, my Dad was set to be cooped up in his office working through the holidays yet again. Meanwhile, it's not like I had an army of relatives in Brooklyn to visit.

What sealed the deal was the run-in with Lu.

Back at home, as I'd sat in my favorite bakery drinking my cafe con leche before hopping on the train that would take me to work, my ex-roommate had stumbled in, clearly looking for me. We got together regularly for drinks and catch-up, but at that point a few weeks had gone by without seeing other, and the state that he was in floored me. Unshaven, hair wild, eyes desperate.

"Need a favor, B," were the first words that'd poured out of his mouth. Followed by more words, crazy-stupid-so ridiculous I'd almost accused him of being drunk. But no. And it hadn't been a big deal for me to agree, I'd already half convinced myself visiting Grams was the way to go in the first place, but a part of me also figured why not kill two birds with one stone.

And it's not that I believed in Lu's dumb plan, since it's been pretty clear to me in the years that I spent visiting Grams, sometimes entire summers with her, and getting to know her best friend's family...the Parkers were tight. Dysfunctional, but family in that real way. Messy and loyal and regularly in the habit of beating on each other, but also scary when they were unified against someone on the outside.

In other words, they were the kind of family that I'd always wanted when I was young. But then, mom and dad had other ideas. Like that two point five kids was one point five too many, and that divorce would roll off my back since eight years was old enough to have grown resilient.

And they weren't wrong, I guess. It worked out. Grams would say otherwise, but in my own humble opinion, I'd led a pretty charmed life.

Especially if you talk to Lu.

He's trying to stay chill, never once looking across to the red-haired man standing by the window, and the whole time my Grams is grilling him about how his internship is going at the production studio, I'm finding myself eyeing the bright blue snowman sweater Lu's sporting. The snowman's got a crooked orange nose and the whole thing is-

I eventually choke from trying so hard not to laugh, hiding it by sipping from my punch. I really want to take a picture so I can use it as blackmail, once we're both back in New York.

"Like it?" he asks. "Joss was nesting."

"Clearly," I say, biting back a grin. "She should do it more often."

"Ha. Ha." He looks around, catches sight of his sister, now toting the origin of that nesting, in a baby carrier strapped to her front. She mows down a few people standing between us and her, and before I know it, vivid blue eyes are beaming brightly down on me.

"Oh, my God," she says, her face fuller and more lined than I remembered, heavy bags under her eye a testament to her new status as mom of a newborn who had probably robbed her of sleep for the last couple weeks. "B, I didn't recognize you!"

"Getting that a lot tonight," I say, trying not to mutter. Grams had said when she met me at the airport that I'd definitely put on curves, but now after both Joss and Livvie's reaction, I'm starting to feel like an anti-Jenny Craig commercial. What didn't help? How often my grandmother kept eyeing my plate, as if my appetite was something alien.

This is one of those moments where I can hear Caro in my head, taunting in that high voice of hers. A few more minutes staring in the mirror will change your world, B.

"You're so...grown! Shit, baby got back!"

I nearly spit out my chicken liver pate. Promptly, Lu's there, patting my back, rubbing soothingly. The way he lingers irks me, a reminder of the show that must go on and to which we have at least one captive audience. I see a flash of red hair and edge away from Lu's hands, but too late, because Joss registers it. She's never been slow and the arched brow and frown as she studies us has me shuffling nervously.

"She's precious, Joss," my grandmother says out of the blue, reaching out to caress fine hair from a small, round face. Wide blue eyes twinkle back at us, the creature in the carrier giggles, and tiny plump fists reach out to charm us some more. This is the first I've seen of Joss's baby and it won't be the last of the night. Not with Grams cooing and aching. I'm sure at some point my grandmother's going to end up changing diapers with me as her assistant.

But she surprises me because instead of asking to hold the baby, she turns away, letting someone grab her attention.

"Not now," I hear her grumble, but there's an undercurrent of insistence in the other woman's voice as she's talking to my grandmother, so I turn, too. And why am I not surprised? Mr. and Mrs. Parker standing together, or rather, trying not to leap away from each other. The way they are never fails to put me in mind of magnets that are set to repel.

Somehow, they've bucked expectations. Last year they'd celebrated their thirty-something anniversary. I know because I spent a long time hearing my grandmother complain about finding the right present for them.

I'm busy staring at them, smiling because now they see me too and in their expressions I'm not sensing that they're about to tell me I look like a stranger. They've known me since I was a kid. At one point in my childhood, in those first few years when Grams moved back to Portland, I spent more time in their home than I did in hers. Tagging along as another Parker practically, tailing Lu and Livvie around town.

"I seem to remember," Mr. Parker's saying, engulfing me in a hug before offering me up to his wife like I'm their long lost prodigal daughter. "Someone promising to visit more often."

"Bah, don't go giving her the guilt trip." Mrs. Parker steps forward, her embrace tighter and longer, with a pat on the back of my hair for good measure to let me know that she doesn't hold it against me, staying away so long. "If I was her age, I'd be in the big city too, living it up."

"But is she?" Mr. Parker asks. "Or is someone just burying her nose in dusty books and forgetting to call her friends and family?"

Okay. So they know me well. They're practically my second set of parents. All of them like family really...except for one.

"Why don't we ask Lu?" comes a third voice. "He can paint a better picture."

It's one I've heard a thousand times, mostly in my head. Mocking, deep, even a little melodious under the right circumstances. I spent years daydreaming it, and then moved into a period where I ran away from it. And now, it'd been way, way too long since I last heard it.

Once upon a time, I'd fancied it. Him. Drove myself batty back when I was in middle school, lovelorn and sick to my stomach anytime I was around him.

I don't look around to place the voice, barely even acknowledge that I heard it at all; Lu, though, is eyeing me closely and must he? Just doing that's broadcasting something to the others, I'm sure. My old paranoia weighs down on me, an old friend I'd long since thought I'd kicked out of my head.

Figures that all it takes is one person to resurface my self-conscious awkwardness. There went B.B., reinvented independent city girl, and here was good ol' Bonnie Bennett, pathetic lovesick doormat.

"B, hon.," Mrs. Parker says to me, as if she just now remembered something. "There's something I need to ask you."

The distraction comes at a great time-there goes Mal Parker, stepping forward between his parents.

Cliché as it sounds, it's the sun breaking from clouds.

The first thing that hits me is blinding color-glaring red and then a bug-eyed turkey face with two bright feathers and a buck-toothed smile from the depths of its beak, staring at me from the vicinity of a hard male chest. I'm frowning, not sure if the sight of those muscles throws me more than the ugly sweater, before I realize in a jiff that I actually like the sweater. Joss made it.

Its wearer-the owner of those muscles? Not so much.

"What's that, Mrs. Parker?" I ask, unsure what inhuman effort I'm using to keep myself sounding so unbothered. It helps that I haven't looked away from the turkey, which is now trembling a little.

"It's nothing big."

Her voice is smooth and warm, like honey, if honey could sound just a little slurred from the effects of one too many glasses of Riesling.

The turkey starts shaking more pronounced now, and here I make a mistake-I glance up.

Huge, huge mistake. Ever have moments where you go deaf? Not the kind where the ringing in your ears muffle out sound-those are normal and just the by-product of aging. No, I'm talking those times when everything goes dead quiet, and it's not just the world around you falling away, or your ears failing. It's your brain, shutting down and not bothering to send SOS signals, just cold turkey flat lining, if only for a few seconds.

This happened to me a lot, back in junior high.

Sad to say, it's happening all over again now.

I see storm clouds set in deep eyes, a familiar high, sharp ridge of a nose that's always for as long as I could remember looked down on me. Not in a snobby way, but merely superior like him being older meant naturally that he was better. His skin was smoother than Joss's, which was strange because they were twins, the exact same age. But he looked a whole decade younger, probably for lack of a child. Or personal commitments of any kind.

Lu had kept me posted, regularly and usually despite my protests that I could care less.

Yet...

Damn the guy. Approaching forty hadn't hurt him at all. If anything, it's making him more lethal. Mal Parker, more than ever, is over six feet of gorgeous, every inch of him mouthwatering man. Everything about him, just bigger than I remembered. More. His stubble, his muscles, and why-why?-had someone decided to carve the edges of his features to accentuate, just a little better, how proportionate everything was? Good Lord. Even in his stupid turkey sweater, his sex appeal could bludgeon you.

And now he's a lawyer, just made junior partner supposedly, and I don't give a rat's ass except that now his ego's likely the size of Texas.

On principle, on paper-I hate the guy.

"Are you and my son dating?"

The turkey on Mal's chest is straight up rollicking now. Moments later, it comes out, deep rumble of laughter reaching my ears, sending my toes curling against my will even while my brain flicks back on, the light bulb inside my head casting light on Mrs. Parker's words.

I'm blinking to process, seeing that Lu's got a really obvious look of relief on his face and his mouth is open to confirm his mother's suspicions-when Mal's smirk grabs my attention. Slow, leisurely tilt to the corner of his mouth...aaaand I am staring. Like an idiot. Argh.

"Isn't it obvious, mom?" Mal winks at me. "Our little B.B.'s in love."