NejiTen Oneshots And Drabbles

Christmas 1944

She was tired and hot and sweaty and dirty from working. She closed and locked the door behind her, shrugged out of her heavy winter coat and yanked off her boots. She worked shifts back to back to back, filling in while others spent time with their families. She didn't mind. She didn't have anything to come home too, really. It wasn't as if the war took time off for the holidays, so neither did she.

In fact, had the factory not closed that afternoon, she would still be there. As it was, she'd be back on the floor first thing on the morning of December 26th. She supposed that it would be good for all of the workers to have more than 24 hours away.

All of them but her.

She was dreading spending the remainder of her Christmas Eve and all of Christmas Day away from the sanctuary of work.

"Oh well," she sighed, rolling her neck side to side. "It can't be helped."

She stretched her arms over her head and felt the tightness of hours of work coiled into her muscles grudgingly begin to unwind. She let her arms fall loosely to her sides, her exhale loud in the stillness of her small home. Suddenly, the quiet was too much for her; too empty. She padded quickly to the radio and flicked it on, the sounds of 'White Christmas' filling the space. She visibly relaxed, not at the song itself, but at the presence of sound.

After spending all day at the factory, where there was a constant hum of machinery and a background of other women talking, the silence was unnerving.

She returned her keys to their home on the peg near the door, and headed back to her bedroom, pulling at the scarf around her hair. She dropped the bright red cloth into her laundry basket, and it was quickly followed by her heavy socks, work-clothes, and undergarments. She crossed to her vanity and pulled the pins out of her two buns, tossing them in a small container as she went. She ran her fingers through her long tumble of brown hair before brushing it quickly.

Her movements were just as they were at the factory. Measured. Concise. Efficient. Quick. Automated.

She didn't really listen to the radio; it was just something to fill the silence.

She didn't used to mind the quiet. Not when he had been here.

His strong, silent, serious presence was a counter to her own lighthearted one, but he always filled the silence just by being there.

She scrubbed away the honest dirt of a hard day's work, and allowed her mind to empty as she washed her hair. She had gotten good at burying her worries and fears and insecurities and hurts. She had a job to do as much as he did. Her work at the factory was all for the war effort, and it was how she could help.

She finished and toweled off, loosely pinning her hair up to keep it out of the way until it dried. She dressed in her favorite pajamas. The long flowing pants and matching top were well worn and comfortable, and the pale blue robe she put on top of them had been one of his gifts to her. She went to the icebox and opened it before deciding she wasn't very hungry. She put the kettle on, made a hot cup of tea, and went to sit in her chair.

"Should probably be cocoa," she said absently, as she sipped at the steaming mug. She listened to the radio – it was another one of those Christmas programs.

She listened to Dinah Shore and Bing Crosby and Bob Hope and Judy Garland.

She looked at the small tree sitting in the corner of the room, its roots in burlap in the bucket. She couldn't bring herself to cut down a live tree. No. She'd plant this one just like she had planted the others while he was gone, and keep the hope that this was the last one she'd have to plant without him.