A prompt from MissOuiser on Tumblr led to this fluff. As usual, not a single one of these lovely characters belong to me. I’ve managed to drop in a bunch of bits and bobs from the series-phrases, old jokes and the like they’re meant for colour, and not intended to be original. (The glitter stuff is all mine, though).

Re: fluffy fic. Shelagh wants a homemade gift. Patrick tries to make salt-dough hand imprint with Angela (you know the kind). Tim to the rescue?

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Christmas preparations were in full swing at the Turner household. Carols played on the record player, spicy-sweet smells filled the air and a fourteen-month-old child was doing her very best to put her stamp on the spruce in the window.

“Oh, no you don’t,” laughed Patrick Turner. Reaching down, he scooped his daughter up away from the object of her desire. “Maybe we’d better lash the tree down this year now that Angela’s walking.”

Frustrated in her failed attempt to join in the work of decorating, Angela squirmed noisily in her father’s arms. You couldn’t really blame her, to be honest. The Turner family Christmas tree held all of the attractions necessary for an energetic and inquisitive toddler. It was new, it was bright and shiny, and most of all, it was there. Add this to her growing confidence on her own two feet, and it was a match made in the North Pole.

Shelagh sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to. She’s getting too big for that playpen, anyway. She nearly climbed out just this morning. Here, Angel Girl, hold the garland for Mummy?”

Successfully distracted by the length of gold, Angela laughed and waved it in the air.

“Pfff,” grunted Patrick, blowing the ticklish strands away from his face. Angela laughed and repeated the motion, the tree forgotten.

“Maybe the Christmas spider will come tonight and spin webs of tinsel for us,” teased Timothy.

Shelagh shuddered. Her dislike of spiders was considered quite the joke by her menfolk. “Spiders won’t be necessary, thank you very much. There’s a box right here–Oh, no, not there, Patrick.”

Her husband paused in mid-ornament-hanging pose. “Why not? We always put the–”

“Yes, I know, dear, and that looks lovely. But perhaps a bit higher? We wouldn’t want the first ornament Timothy made to be a casualty of toddler curiosity.” Shelagh took the lumpy, discolored snowman from her husband’s outstretched hand and placed it in a safer zone. “There, it should be safe up here.”

A bell dinged in the kitchen, and Shelagh turned from the tree. “That’s the mince pies done.”

Timothy shot up. “I’ll get them, Mum.”

“No, Timothy. I’ll take care of it.  You’ll burn your mouth sneaking one too soon.”

Patrick laughed. “Patience, Tim. They won’t disappear instantly. Even you can’t eat three dozen tarts before Christmas!”

Shelagh came to the hatch window, “They’re not all for us, Patrick. I’ll leave some, of course, but the rest are going out.”

“Going out?” the two Turner men cried together.

“Yes, as gifts. I thought it would be nice to give some to the neighbors, and Nonnatus never seems to have enough.” Unfazed by the stunned expressions on her family’s face, Shelagh settled on the sofa with a bottle of formula in her hand. “Here, Angel, come to Mummy,” she called, slipping her earring from her left ear and into a pocket.

In a moment, Angela was settled on her mother’s lap, one hand wrapped around her bottle whilst the other played gently with her mother’s ear. “At Nonnatus, it was always a tradition to make gifts for each other,” Shelagh continued, a soft smile playing across her face. “We’d all retreat to far corners during Handicrafts to make useful little things we could all use; bookmarks, or embroidered tea towels. I think that was my favourite part of Christmas at Nonnatus.”

Shelagh buried her face in her daughter’s soft, blonde hair. Steering the conversation back, she suggested, “Perhaps we could make each other gifts this year. Nothing too ambitious, of course, just something little.”

“Make gifts?” her husband answered, his voice worried. Handicrafts had not played any part in Patrick Turner’s education.

Angela shifted on her mother’s lap, and released the finished bottle to her mother’s waiting hand. Shelagh stood up. “I was only thinking out loud, Patrick. never you mind. You’re busy enough as it is. Well, it’s off to bed for this sleepy little girl. Could you-?” she handed the empty bottle to her husband and left the room.

Timothy followed his father into the kitchen and watched as his father rinsed out the bottle. “I think she meant it, Dad. About the hand-made gifts, I mean.”

Patrick nodded as he lit a cigarette. His “yes” was punctuated by the click of his lighter. “I really can’t make anything.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Besides, I’ve already gotten your mother a gift.”

“You have?” Tim asked, surprised.

“Of course, I have. I found it weeks ago.” His arms crossed as he considered. “I’m sure she’ll be pleased with it more than anything I could make for her.” He glanced at the piano, knowing his hiding place was secure. Shelagh probably knew he hid his gifts for her inside the instrument, but would never betray it.  He pictured the gold bracelet he’d found in a local shop and imagined how it would look on her pretty wrist. He did so like to give her pretty things.

All of her jewelry was a gift from him, now that he thought of it. Prior to their wedding, the only ornament she wore was his engagement ring. He knew her funds had been limited, but she had bought herself some accessories to brighten her appearance: her bright blue silk scarf was a favourite of his.

Early in their marriage, she had seemed uncomfortable with the little gewgaws he brought home but had always accepted them graciously. Each time he commented that she was wearing one of his gifts, her reply was always, “I’m glad you like it, dearest.”

And she had teased him once that possessions were not a source of comfort, but rather they got in the way of life. But the conversation had been side-tracked by their new intimacy and was never resolved.

Maybe tonight’s suggestion was not meant as lightly as Shelagh had implied.

Two days later, Patrick was afraid there wasn’t enough help in the world to get him out of this mess. Literally.

The kitchen was a disaster. Flour covered the floor, bowls, measuring cups and spoons cluttered every horizontal surface, and Angela more closely resembled a very small yeti than a child. He sighed heavily.

“I have my doubts about this, Angela. Mummy will be home in a few hours, and we haven’t even made the–” he was interrupted by the slam of the door.

“I’m home!” called Timothy. “Mr. Carmichael excused me from my piano lesson a bit early this morning. He said I’ve got enough on my plate worrying about Mum’s concert at the church, so I should just come home and practice with her. I didn’t mention that she wasn’t–” the cheerful chatter cut off sharply.

“What on earth happened here?” he asked when he finally found his voice.

Patrick twitched as if he were holding a cigarette. “Angela and I are making your mother a Christmas ornament.”

Taking cautious steps into the room, Timothy took in the entire scene. “Dad, do you even know what you’re doing?” His voice was skeptical.

“I’m a fairly intelligent man, Timothy. Sister Winifred gave me the recipe and went over it very clearly. She assured me that if she could do it with a class full of nursery children, I could do it with one Angela.” To emphasize his point, he picked up the rolling pin and began to wrestle the large whitish blob on the table into a smoother, flattish blob.

“Yes, but Dad, this is practically cooking. And look at Angela! She’s covered in…is this glue, Dad?”

“No. She splashed some water on herself right after she helped me measure the flour. It’ll come off in the bath with warm water.”

“Angela measured the flour? Dad, you do know she’s barely fourteen months? Of course she’s covered in it!”

“Your mother wants a handmade gift, Timothy. It won’t be handmade if all Angela does it sit by and watch. Could you be a bit more supportive, please?”

The tall boy had the good grace to look guilty. “Sorry, Dad. What can I do to help?”

Patrick wiped his hands on the too-small flowered apron he wore. “I’ve got to get this dough spread out so I can cut out a circle big enough for Angela’s handprint. You’re the pastry chef here. Can you do this part?” He held out the rolling pin.

Timothy nodded and took off his aubergine school jacket. “The dough keeps sticking to the pin because you haven’t floured the surface of the dough enough,” he sprinkled a dusting of flour across the table and set to work.

“This is quite a lot of dough, Dad. How many ornaments do you plan to make?”

“Only one. But I have to put the finished shape in the oven and I thought it would be best if…”

Tim gave an understanding nod, visions of smoke billowing through the kitchen. “Be prepared, Dad.”

It didn’t take Timothy long to roll the salt dough into a smooth layer and cut out half-dozen discs, ready for Angela’s handprint.

“Right, then,” Patrick announced. “Your turn, Angela!”

The Turner males turned to the littlest family member, who by this time had given up any hope for entertainment. Her eyes were glazed over as she absently sucked her thumb. Starting awake with the suddenness only a child knows, Angela pushed her feet against the chair and stretched tall.

Twenty minutes later, Patrick was feeling quite proud of himself as he slid the tray of ornaments into the oven to dry out. Fairly regular in shape, the rounds all bore a clean impression of Angela’s hand. Six near perfect chances at a handmade gift for Shelagh.

“Well, that’s done and dusted,” he exhaled. He turned back to the kitchen and all the elation of the moment before left him like a deflated balloon.

“Tim–”

“I know, I know. I’ll get the mop.”

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By three o’clock in the afternoon, the house was finally back in some sort of order. Not enough to look suspicious, mind you, but just enough to eradicate any signs of Patrick in the kitchen. That exhausted man lay on the sofa, his feet over the edge and a little girl asleep on his chest.

In the kitchen, Timothy looked over their efforts as he swirled hot water in the teapot. His head tilted to the side as he considered an idea.

Through the hatch window, he asked, “Dad, is that all? I mean, no decoration or anything?”

A low groan came from the sofa. “Can’t we leave it as it is?”

“You could, if you think that’s what Mum would like. But this sort of thing always has some paint or a name on it…or glitter.” Timothy went back to the tea.

Patrick was starting to understand why he had never made gifts before. It was much easier to stop in at a shop and pick something out. There was the bracelet, after all. Angela turned her head in search of her thumb in her sleep, and he was reminded of Shelagh’s face as she spoke of the gift exchanges at Nonnatus.

“Right, then” he sighed. “Watch your sister, Tim. I’m off to the shops.”

The streets of Poplar were still crowded with holiday shoppers as Patrick roamed about the stalls searching for something to use on Shelagh’s gift. But Patrick was not a born shopper, nor was he particularly artistic, so after what seemed like hours, but was really only ten minutes, he was about to give up.

“Oi, Dr. Turner! Fancy seein’ you hereabouts. Finishin’ up some a’ the shoppin’ for the missus?” Fred Buckle appeared at his side, a large Christmas bow shaking in the man’s arms.

“Oh, hello, Fred. I was just looking for something that doesn’t seem to exist. I’ll have to think of something else, I’m afraid.”

“Hang on, then. I didn’t spend me free time in the Army learnin’ the fine art of scrounging fer nothin’. Whatcher need, then?”

Patrick laughed. “Army life was good for something, then, hey? Timothy said I need some glitter. But I’ve been all over the high street and it’s not to be found.”

“Glitter? Doc, I was hoping to impress ya wif me skills. I feel bad tellin’ ya to stop by Vi’s shop. She can set ya up for sure,” Fred said, nodding in the direction of the shop.  Now this tree and my arms are startin’ to not get along so well, if you see what I mean, so I’ll leave you to it, then. See you at the concert!”

Patrick was still shaking his head at the man’s ways when he opened the door to Violet Buckle’s haberdashery. The store was strangely empty after the crowded shops along the street.  

“Good afternoon, Dr. Turner! I never expected to see you in my shop. What can I do for you?” The new Mrs. Buckle secreted a box of tickets under the counter as she spoke.

“Good afternoon. Mrs. Buckle. Fred sent me in. I’m looking for glitter.” Patrick felt a bit silly saying it out loud.

“Glitter? Of course. Let me–” she reached up on a high shelf towards the back of the shop and brought down a box in front of him. “Here we are, then. Some yellow, gold, blue and here’s one last jar of silver. That’d be gone, too, if we’d been able to have the children’s Nativity this year-awful measles!”

“Silver, please.” he reached for some coins in his pocket.

“That’ll be 5p, thank you.” Violet rang up the till. “Mrs. Turner sent you out on a mission, did she then?”

Patrick looked askance. “Actually, no, she didn’t. If you don’t mind, Mrs. Buckle, could we keep this between us? I need it for a gift for her.”

“Of course,” the woman soothed. “How nice, a handmade gift. May I ask what you’re doing?”

“I wish I knew, Mrs. Buckle. Angela and I are making a Christmas ornament out of dough, and Timothy said it needed glitter. So here I am. I’ve got an hour before Shelagh gets home from her shift at the maternity home, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”

A wide grin spread across Violet’s face. “Oh, that’s easy!” She went back to the same corner of the shop and returned with a jar of white glue. “Spread some of this glue on top of the dough–you did let the dough dry out completely, didn’t you? Good. Spread some of this glue on, not too thick, mind, and then sprinkle the glitter over the surface. When it’s dried a bit you can shake the extra off. Another coat of the glue-don’t worry, it dries clear- and you’ll be all set. There, then. That is nice. I always loved hand-made ornaments. My Derek made them for me every year when he was little. Shelagh will be very happy, Doctor.” The grin turned into a warm smile.

Patrick nodded. “That’s what I’m hoping for.”

“No matter what it looks like, no matter how ugly, your wife will love it because you made it yourselves.” She gasped, realizing her faux-pas. “Not that it will be ugly, of course not! Oh, I never meant–”

“That’s quite alright, Mrs. Buckle. No offense taken. But if I’m to get this finished, I’ll be on my way. Happy Christmas!”

“You’ve had a busy day,” Shelagh noted as she closed the bedroom door to the world that night.

Patrick looked up from his book, his eyes wary. “What do you mean?”

Shelagh sat at her dressing table and began her nightly routine. Over her shoulder, she answered, “You were with Angela all afternoon today, and somehow you found time to put a load of laundry in the wash tub. Even I don’t try to do laundry when Angela’s awake!”

Patrick grimaced. Angela’s clothes had been so covered in flour and dough he’d been afraid the day’s secret would be given away. “Yes, well, I got a bit ambitious today. Don’t get used to it, it’s not likely to happen again. I think I like our napping afternoons better.”

A giggle escaped Shelagh’s lips. “You do have a gift for that, dearest.” She rose and sat beside him on the edge of the bed, her hand entwining with his. “I missed you this afternoon.”

His eyes warmed and a crooked smile crossed his face. “We missed you, too. I’m glad you don’t work Saturday shifts often. I’d rather us be altogether than babysit.”

“Patrick, it’s not ‘babysitting’ when it’s your own child,” Shelagh teased. “We call that ‘parenting.’”

Patrick tugged her close. “Yes, well, I prefer “parenting” with you, then. No more Saturdays for a while, please?” He knew he was being unreasonable. Shelagh never complained about his strange hours, and understood when his duties took him away from their family, but he was tired and a bit cranky. Of the six ornaments left in the oven to dry, only two had remained intact, and the glitter had been much more of a mess than he had anticipated. And it got everywhere!!

All in all, the sole surviving ornament wasn’t such a disappointment. He had even remembered to punch a hole in it before the drying process. The jaunty red ribbon finished it off nicely, but now he worried that Shelagh would be disappointed in its quality. Why was gift-giving so complicated?

His attention was called back to the present by Shelagh’s fingers in his hair. “Patrick, you’ve silver in your hair,” she noticed softly.

He winced in reply. Yes, much as he hated to admit it, he was showing signs of his age. It didn’t help that Shelagh looked like an ingenue with her hair about her shoulders in a soft curtain, her eyes wide without her glasses. His ego tender, he snapped, “Yes, Shelagh, I know. I’ll be grey before my next birthday at this rate.”

“No, Patrick, I meant you really have silver in your hair.” She moved closer to see the hair at his temple. “Right here, you have glitter in your hair. And I found some on Angela’s neck tonight, as well.”

Distracted by the sight of her throat so close to his face, it took a moment for her words to sink in.

“Patrick? Do you know where this glitter’s from?”

He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, then was inspired by a bit of genius. “A Christmas ornament, perhaps? Angela’s a little fiend around the tree. Could it have been that?”

“Hmmm…perhaps,” Shelagh murmured. Her face moved closer to his and her hand caressed his cheek. “Patrick, about what I said the other day?”

Patrick’s words were lost in her hair as he nuzzled her neck.

Shelagh sighed contentedly, then continued. “About hand-made gifts? I’m sorry, dearest, I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. Perhaps it would be best if we didn’t exchange gifts at all?”

A low rumble of laughter grew up from Patrick’s chest. After a moment, he reached around and pulled Shelagh down on top of his chest. “How about we think about exchanging a gift tonight, instead?”

Much later, Shelagh was surprised to find that glitter can, in fact, get everywhere.

Christmas morning began well before dawn for the Turner family, for it was the one day teen-aged Timothy needed no coaxing from his warm bed. Having experienced several not-so-joyful holidays in his not-so-distant past, the boy was determined to make the most of the day, and quite happily played Santa’s helper. He was even able to sit by patiently as his sister gradually learned the fine art of gift unwrapping.

In less time than Shelagh believed possible, the gifts that had taken hours to wrap were scattered about the room, the carpet hidden by a blanket of brightly shredded paper. Angela sat like a queen under the fairy lights, her Christmas stash of gifts ignored as she found ways to make a large box fit on her head. Timothy, determined to build the model human skeleton that very morning, settled himself at the table and was soon lost in the instructions.

She glanced through the hatch at Patrick watching over his family from his favourite chair and met his look of contentment. His hands toyed unconsciously with the eyeglass case Shelagh had embroidered for him for his dreaded new reading glasses. With a smile, she rejoined her family and held out a bottle to the eager hands of her daughter.

“There you go, Angel.” Her hand smoothed over the soft baby hair that was growing as quickly as the rest of the child. Glancing about the detritus of the family gift exchange, she laughed and began to pick up the torn paper. “I’ll start the breakfast after I’ve cleaned a bit of this up.”

“Oh, no, not yet,” protested her husband. Patrick reached out and in a deft movement brought his wife down on his lap.

“Patrick!” Shelagh giggled.The sound brought Tim’s head up from his model.

“Must you? You’ll put Angela off her milk.” The spark in the young man’s eyes belied his complaining tone.

“I’m afraid I must, Tim,” his father replied. “I haven’t given you your gift yet, Shelagh.”

Shelagh blushed prettily as she opened the small square box. “Oh, Patrick, it’s lovely!” She slipped the gold bangle on to her wrist and admired it. “Thank you very much, dearest,” she whispered and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth.

“Do you like it? Really?” Patrick asked, picking up her hand to admire the way the bangle showed against her glowing skin.

“Yes. I love it.” The blush deepened as he brought her fingers to his lips.

Timothy sighed loudly. “If you’re finished, Dad?”

A sly grin replaced the tender look on Patrick’s face, letting Shelagh understand that no, he was not quite finished, for now. “Alright, Tim. Go ahead.”

Timothy stepped over to his sister. “Here you go Angela. Give this to Mummy, please.”

The toddler laughed and waddled to her feet. Her hands outstretched, she handed a brightly wrapped box to her mother.

“Mumma,” she chortled.

Shelagh looked back at Timothy. “But you children have already given me a new pair of gloves. There was no need to give me anything else.”

“It’s from all of us, Dad, too. It’s a surprise.” Timothy grinned as he joined Angela on the floor.

Careful to preserve the paper, she slowly began to unwrap her gift. “You can tear the paper, Shelagh. We’ll use new paper next year,” Patrick teased.

“Well, then I’ll just save the ribbon, then,” she responded. “What on earth can it be, Angela?”

The little girl giggled and started to bounce on her bottom. Amid the laughter that followed, Shelagh pulled the tissue paper inside the box and gasped. She looked into Patrick’s face, her eyes misty.

“Merry Christmas, my love,” Patrick whispered.

Shelagh rested her cheek against his temple and closed her eyes.

“Don’t look, Angela. Mushy stuff!” warned Timothy.

Angela mimicked her brother’s words and stepped to her mother.  Her clapping hands brought Shelagh back in the moment. Reaching down, she lifted the child up to her lap. Patrick’s groan went unnoticed. “Thank you sweetheart. Mummy loves it very much. Now we’ll always have a reminder of how little you once were.” She wiped a tear away and smiled over at her son. “Thank you, dearest. It’s truly wonderful.”

“It wasn’t me,” the boy shrugged in return. “Dad gets all the credit. He did everything, he even let Angela help make the dough. Of course, I got to clean up the mess.”

Shelagh ran a gentle finger over the glittered surface of the ornament, tracing the lines and swells of her daughter’s handprint. “It’s precious, darling,” she whispered on a sigh. “Thank you, darling. I’ll treasure it always.”

“I suppose we’ll be needing more glitter for next year, then,” Timothy commented over breakfast an hour later. He ran his finger over the kitchen windowsill. “The stuff gets everywhere.”