Work Text:
Shirley set her beer down on the coffee table next to a pile of torn wrapping paper. “Why, Denny, I have never known you to hate fun.”
Denny sat back in the warm glow of several glasses of Scotch, a warm fire, and the knowlegde of still being the 1%, and tried to get his thoughts in order.
Shirley hadn't come to him in the aftermath of the disaster that had been Carl Sack, and neither had she come to him during the brief cancer scare of 2010. Denny had almost – but never quite, for he was, after all, Denny Crane – given up hope. And now, here she was. He'd always known that she wouldn't be able to stay away.
But only if it's him and Alan?
Alan sat in an armchair opposite and regarded them curiously, the blinking red and green lights of his reindeer antlers throwing odd shadows on his face.
What could he do? There was principle, there was pride, and then there was Shirley Schmidt.
“Why not?” said Denny and downed his scotch. “It's Christmas!”