My Pot O' Gold Under the Mistletoe by flYegurl

Category:Maximum Ride
Genre:Humor, Romance
Characters:Iggy, Max
Published:2011-12-26 00:01:10
Updated:2011-12-26 00:01:10
Packaged:2021-04-22 01:10:42
Summary:Iggy's being a devious little leprechaun; Max wants his pot of gold. But why does he want her to look up? And why can't Max ignore it? He's a trickster, but for some reason, she can't turn away. Oh well. Maybe this Ginger Kid is kinda-sorta cute. Ish.

My Pot O' Gold Under the Mistletoe

Here we have my first, I do believe, winter-holiday-oriented fanfiction. I myself am a total Jewish-Athiest, and not celebrating Christmas, and feeling that somehow the flock wouldn't celebrate Chanukkah, I just decided to do a sort of non-holiday related, religion-neutral winter-timey oneshot. Here's to religion-neutral oneshots! Yay!

Disclaimer: I own not Maximum Ride, I own not Iggy nor Max. Also, I give full credit to all references to male private parts as 'kiwis' to the lovely fanfiction author Frenzied Warrior. Go check out her stuff, it's awesome.

"Max!" Angel shrieked. "Max! Max!"

"What is it?" I cried, tossing aside the torn shirt I had been inspecting – it was good for a few more uses – and rushing out into the hallway. "Erasers? Flyboys? Whitecoats?" I exploded into the living room, fists raised, poised for battle. What I saw was not an Eraser attack, but Angel and Gazzy with their noses pressed against the frosty windows and Nudge dancing around, hands in the air, her bare feet tapping out a jig on the thick rug.

"No, Max!" Angel laughed. "It's snowing!" She pointed out the window, grinning ear to ear. "See?"

I turned my gaze to the window, which had fogged up with the kids' breath. Outside, the sky was a dull, cloudy grey, with fat, white snowflakes floating to the ground.

"Oh," I said. "So it is."

"It's snowing, it's sno-owing, it's s-s-s-s-snowing!" Nudge sang, continuing her dance.

"Um, yeah." I stood there for a second, staring at the three kids. The looked at me with broad smiles, Nudge still hopping around in a circle. "You guys, uh, want to go play in the snow?"

The cheerful screams were so loud, I was nearly deafened. I didn't quite understand their unbridled enthusiasm; I mean, it snowed once a year, every year. It's not like this was their first.

"Let's make snowpeople!" Angel suggested. "Max, can we make snowpeople?" That's my girl: no sexism in this house.

"Sure," I agreed.

"Snow, snow, snow," Nudge sang, spinning in slow circles, "I love snow!"

"Make Iggy and Fang come with us!" Gazzy begged energetically. "Please, Max?" I nodded, shrugging.

Gazzy wrapped his arms around my waist, burying his face in the front of my shirt before rushing off with Angel to get changed. Nudge followed, still dancing, still singing.

It took me a moment to gather my thoughts – I was staring out the window at the fluffy snow, wondering what I had done – before I turned and trotted back into the hallway. Just as I entered the hall, Fang emerged from Angel and Nudge's room, looking harried.

"Playing in the snow, huh?" he said, looking at me with an accusatory stare. I grinned apologetically.

"Don't disappoint the kids," was my response. Then, "And where's our resident blind pervert?"

Fang gestured over his shoulder. "Upstairs," he grunted. "Says he wants to talk to you."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, joy," I said, and Fang cracked a grin.

I dragged my feet along the hall and up the stairs. As I turned the corner, Iggy came into view. He was standing, hands stuffed into his pockets, head cocked towards me. Of course he had heard me coming.

"What do you want?" I asked, not bothering to raise my voice, knowing full well he could hear me perfectly. He grinned and pulled a hand out of his pocket, beaconing me forward. I shook my head, even though I knew he couldn't see it.

"No way!" I said stoutly. "Whatever you have to tell me, here is fine." I was so not getting into the range of any of his stupid bombs.

"It's not a trap, Max, I promise," he replied. Then he paused, hesitating. "Well, it's sort of a trap, but…"

I crossed my arms. "Oh, so it's only sort of a trap."

Iggy nodded. "Come on, Max, just really quick… I'm not leaving this immediate vicinity until you get over here."

"What about the snow?" I asked. "The kids want you to play with them." This was my ace in the hole; Iggy simply couldn't resist a chance to see a little against the white. It's why winter is his favorite season.

I could see the flash of excitement in Iggy's eyes, but then he hesitated and shook his head.

"No, my resolve is firm. I am decided. I shalt not leave this spot until you come over here."

I shrugged. A stubborn Iggy would not be swayed. "Suit yourself," I said, and turned, walking back downstairs to join the rest of my flock in the stupid snow. I made sure to make my footsteps extra-loud, and exaggerated my non-existent excitement when I gushed with Nudge about how awesome the snow was.

Playing in the snow was, in fact, as obnoxiously mundane as I had thought it would be. I wore myself out making snow angels with Angel (she was convinced that because her name was part of the activity, she had to make at least a few dozen), attempting to build a snow fort with Gazzy, and catching snowflakes on my tongue with Nudge. By the end of four hours, I had melted snow up my pants, snow packed into my boots and gloves, several bruises from ice-balls that Gazzy argued had been plain-old snowballs when he threw them initially, and my tongue numbed by the hundreds of snowflakes I had been forced to catch.

"Inside!" I gasped, gesturing the little kids back into the house, happy that I would momentarily be feeling the warmth of blessed indoor-heating. "Good grief, you've been at it for hours!"

"Ugh," Fang grunted, stumbling up behind Gazzy, off-balance, ice frozen in his dark hair, his lips somewhat purple-tinged. "Never… again… am I letting… Gazzy bury me… in snow…"

I slapped him on the back. "Not my fault," I reminded him. "It was all the kids' doing, I promise you."

"Yeah, and I suppose Iggy is immune to the kids' requests?" Fang grunted, annoyed. I scowled at him.

"Yeah, why didn't Iggy come out and play?" Gazzy whined. Angel had already made her sorry way back into the house and was waiting depressed-ly in the doorway as Gazzy dragged his feet along and Nudge took her time, gazing longingly back out at the snow, which had been packed-down and smudged brown with the dirt that the kids had stirred up during their fun.

"I told you guys already, he was being a stubborn pig-headed mule," I reminded them. "Now, Gazzy, Nudge, get your little butts inside before I have to swat you."

Nudge and the Gasman picked up the pace, and in about five minutes the front door was shut and the five of us were cuddled in the living room, Nudge and Angel sharing a blanket, as Gazzy and Fang attempted to make a fire in the fireplace.

"Could sure use Iggy right about now," Fang hinted gruffly, and I rolled my eyes.

"Whatever, Fang."

I turned and made my way into the kitchen, where I assumed Iggy would be preparing dinner. However, the kitchen appeared untouched. After a second, it was obvious that he hadn't been anywhere near the place for hours, and I instead picked my way up the stairwell, thinking that maybe, just maybe, Iggy was actually hard-headed enough to…

Yes. The idiot was still at his spot in the hallway, although he was now leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. I got the feeling that he had been sitting down a few moments before, but upon hearing my approach had hurriedly stood.

"Finally come around, Max?" he said, as though my coming upstairs was all part of a cleverly devised plan that he had constructed. Pfft. As if.

"Hey, Igmeister, the kids want you to start a fire downstairs," I said, gesturing over my shoulder; once again, no, I did not care that he didn't see it.

Iggy shrugged carelessly and settled comfortably back against the wall. "No can do, sorry, Maxine," he said. "I told you, I'm not leaving this general vicinity until you shimmy your chubby little self over here."

I put my hands on my hips and gave him my best Death Glare © 2002.

"Iggy Martin Johnson Ginger Griffiths," I said snappily (I like to make up middle names for the kid when I give him a talking-to, it makes me sound more commanding). "You will come downstairs this minute and help Fang build a fire, and then you will make hot chocolate for those of us who had to fend for ourselves in the snow, and then you will prepare dinner and make us chocolate-chip cookies for dessert, or so help me I will come right over there and swat your skinny white ass all the way into next year."

Iggy stood up and spread his arms, grinning like the dim-witted moron he is. "Come right on over."

I dropped my arms and narrowed my eyes. If I went over there, I'd be playing right into whatever trap Iggy had planned up. However, since Iggy refused to come downstairs, if I didn't go over there I'd be going back on my promise to whoop his stinky butt, and Maximum Ride doesn't go back on her promises.

Sighing, I took one step towards the diabolical bringer-of-doom that was Iggy Griffiths (I don't usually use his legal last name, but in the case of frustration aimed at said blind bird-kid, it gives me great satisfaction as it annoys him immensely). His smirk just got bigger, and I realized that I was playing directly into his hands.

When I had reached his stretch of the hallway, I stepped right up to him and stared into his face, nose to nose, although with him being about six inches taller than me, the great big lummox, it didn't have quite the effect I wanted it to. Especially with him also being, you know, blind.

"What do you want?" I asked, staring up my nose at him. His stupid ears stuck out, and made him look like a leprechaun. He was ginger enough to be one, anyway. Stupid ginger leprechaun, with his stupid Irish-esque mischievous grin. You know, he probably had leprechaun ancestors. His great-great-grandfather was probably a leprechaun. The kind that played nasty tricks on hapless passersby who wanted their gold. Iggy probably had leprechaun gold, passed down through generations of leprechaun ancestries. Although his stupid height contradicts that theory…

"Max, did you know that the world 'gullible' is written on the ceiling?" he asked.

My eyes began to turn up towards the ceiling, but I stifled the urge and, using my epic powers of self-control, kept them fixed on Iggy's idiotic leprechaun grin.

"Har har," I said. "It is freaking not." I could tell that Iggy sensed that I hadn't fallen for his little trick by the somewhat downcast expression that flitted across his face for a second.

"Aww, come on, Max," Iggy begged. "Just look up."

"Yeah," I scoffed. "And have a pudding bomb explode in my face? A balloon full of paint fall down on me?"

Iggy rolled his eyes. "That's not going to happen, Max."

"Oh yeah?" I said. "How do I know if you're telling the truth, what with those obnoxiously tricky little leprechaun genes in you?"

"Um… Leprechaun genes, Max?" Iggy replied, raising a hideous ginger eyebrow. Ooh, that sneaky little eyebrow-raise of his. The kid probably knew that I was onto his leprechaun-ness and was trying to lead me away from the trail to his gold. I was not giving up, dammit! I wanted leprechaun gold and I was not giving up my search!

Wait… I wasn't here for gold, was I? No, I was here to get Iggy to come down and make dinner. And cookies. And hot chocolate. Oh, and there was that fire.

"Anyway, move it, buster," I continued, mindless of his previous question. "Get downstairs and make us some dinner."

Iggy leaned back against the wall again and shrugged. "I'm sorry, seriously, Max," he said, "But like I said, I'm not moving until you look up."

"Oh well, then," I said. "I guess I'll just go down and make us all dinner myself. You're a mutant bird-kid with some serious binge-eating issues, and when you smell the delectable scent of my beautiful dinner wafting up the stairs, you're gonna change your mind anyway."

"Sorry to say this, Max, but I rather think that any hunger pangs I have will actually be distilled by the sickly odor of any food you manage to burn as it creeps up the stairs like a poisonous gas."

I felt that that comment, as well as the obnoxious leprechaun behavior and the fact that he wouldn't reveal the location of his damn gold, deserved the good kiwi-kicking I gave him.

I left the poor ginger doubled over in pain, clutching his rather unfortunate kiwis, and marched heavily down the stairs, determined to make the best darn-tootin' dinner the jackass had ever and would ever smell.

When the smoke had aired out of all the open windows and the flock-minus-Iggy had finished the burnt something-or-other I had forcefully shoved down their throats, I decided not to give Iggy the satisfaction of returning upstairs where he could torment me endlessly about how my apparent bad cooking was oh-so-gagworthy. No. I would not give him that. The stupid little leprechaun would have to suffer through the rest of the evening without his laughs, and I would find that stupid pot of gold that he must have hidden somewhere nearby seeing as he was blind and really didn't have many options.

"Max, will you come up and tuck me in?" Angel asked sweetly, and I turned around and threw my hands in the air.


Angel gawked up at me with wide eyes. I stared down at her with narrow ones.

"Wh-why?" she asked, shocked.

"One of these days, Angel, I won't be around to tuck you in at night, and you need to learn to go to bed yourself," I explained, it being the first reasonably-sense-making explanation that came to mind. Angel stared at me.

"What?" she asked.

"I meant what I said and I said what I meant. Now, off to bed. Hurry, you don't want to be caught after curfew by the gnomes. I've got to find Iggy's gold before they do."

"Max, are you okay?"

"Shut your mouth, hun, and go upstairs."

I shoved Angel forcibly up the stairs, and ignored her reproachful glares as I retreated into the living room to make myself a nice little bed out of the couch and a few choice pillows that Fang will not be told were taken from his bed.

Just as I had fluffed the pillows up to comfortable fluffiness, Gazzy poked his head into the room with his mouth already open in a question. I groaned theatrically, causing him to gape for a moment before continuing.

"Max," he said, "Iggy's not coming to bed. He's just sitting in the hallway being weird. Has he been like that all day? He hasn't eaten yet, has he?"

"Leave him, Gazzy," I told the little trooper. The annoying little trooper that enjoys throwing ice-balls at my face. "He's just upset that I'm on to him and his little leprechaun tricks. That boy won't be keeping his gold hidden for much longer."

Gazzy's eyes widened and he slowly slid back out of my view. I heard his little feet pattering down the hall and up the stairs.

Of course, a second later, Nudge had made her own way into my new sleeping place and started babbling about how apparently I was being racist by separating Iggy out as a leprechaun just because he was a Ginger, and that Ginger Kids were people, too, and that despite popular belief they did, in fact, have souls, and that she did not appreciate me racially profiling him out to have leprechaun gold just because…

I slapped my hand over her mouth and guided her out of the room. She left only with my assurances that she had shown me the light and that I would never again be racist against Gingers.

Of course, just as I was settling down with the comforting thought that the little kids were off to bed, Fang sticks his great fat stupid head in and I have to hurriedly stuff the pillows I had stolen from his room under the quilt I was using. He eyed the lump of fluffy pillow-ness suspiciously, but didn't ask about it.

"Max," he grunted, "Do you know where my pillows went?"

I shrugged. "Pillows? What are pillows?"

He raised his eyebrows. "You know, those fluffy things that one generally uses to sleep comfortably?"

I smacked myself in the forehead. "Duh. Silly me. Nope, I haven't seen any pillows. Maybe you should check Iggy's room. I'm sure that leprechaun wouldn't mind if you took his."

Fang stared at me for a long time, his dark eyes flicking from between me and the pillow-lump I was trying to hide.

"Don't be racist, Max," he said, and unfortunately he predicted that I would hurl one of his pillows at his head. He caught it deftly. "Thanks," he muttered, then left the way he had come; obnoxiously soundless, almost ninja-esque. Ninjesque. Yeah. That's Max's word: Ninjesque, meaning to act as silently and/or mysteriously awesome as a ninja; © 2011.

Fang having taken one of my pillows, I only had four left, and struggled unsuccessfully to fall asleep for a long time. After about eight minutes of that relentless insomnia, I decided that the only way to tire myself out enough to fall asleep on such a lacking sleeping space was to occupy myself with my search for leprechaun gold.

An exhaustingly long time later (probably nearly thirteen minutes), all my search had produced was a few candy wrappers, the cheese-cracker I had lost in the couch last week – alas, it was moldy now, and therefor inedible –, a quarter, three nickels, and Nudge's "Things That I, Like, Totally Need To Do" list. She had been frantically looking for it yesterday for all of three minutes. Impatient little rascal.

Of course, after my unyielding exploration, I decided to turn in and watch some television for a few hours. A Monk marathon was on; twenty-four hours of OCD-murder-detective-y goodness.

Unfortunately, about three hours into the marathon I realized that, unfortunately, my bladder wouldn't be holding for much longer (I'm sorry, but Monk simply can't be watched without a few cans of Coke-Zero by your side to, you know, stimulate the infer-ative brain-cells). Also quite unfortunately, the only bathroom in this stupid summer-home that we had hijacked for the, well, other three seasons of the year was upstairs. Therefor if I didn't want to pee in the yard or the kitchen sink, I'd have to confront Iggy. All of my careful strategizing was for naught.

I sighed and decided to merely creep to the bathroom as ninjesque-ly as possible, and I crawled silently up the stairs. When I reached the top, I peeked over the top step into the hallway, searching for Iggy in the shadows. My eyes made out his ginger hair instantly; the little dweeb was still firmly planted in his little section of the hallway, where he had been for the past day. I wondered vaguely if he had gone to the bathroom at all and decided that he probably had, because the thought that he had wet his pants was gross and because imagining holding it in for twelve hours was totally unthinkable.

I poked my head up and listened carefully. After a quiet pause, I heard a little snore. The leprechaun was sleeping.

Deciding that it was safe to move on, I continued through the hall, treading carefully; thank bajeezus for fuzzy socks, they're the ninja's best friend. The bathroom was past Iggy, so I made sure not to make even the slightest sound as I passed his sleeping form. I was extremely ninjesque.

The bathroom was wonderful. Nothing feels quite as welcoming as the scent of toilet cleaner and the feel of the matted shower mat under your feet when you have to pee.

I exited the bathroom as soon as I finished my business and started to creep back down the hallway, but found myself at a stop in front of Iggy. I stared at the guy's sleeping face. He had slid down the wall in his unconsciousness, his legs sprawled out and taking up nearly the entire span of the hallway, his arms crossed in front of his chest, a little furrow between his ginger eyebrows. He was scowling in his sleep. How adorable – not.

I knelt down in front of him and cocked my head. The kid was determined, I'll give him that. I'd never known Iggy Paprika Mark Robert Irish Griffiths to skip a day in the snow or a meal, and for him to skip both in the same day was nigh improbable. Why on earth was he so fixated on getting me to look up?

Curious, and deciding that since the sneaky leprechaun was asleep and couldn't possibly do any harm, I cast my eyes to the ceiling. Consequently, my stomach dropped into my feet.

Above my head hung a little sprig of green, and unless I was very much mistaken, it looked a rather lot like… mistletoe.

And if I know the story well enough, when two people are caught together underneath mistletoe, they're supposed to kiss.

The devious little leprechaun!

As I slowly regained proper breathing pattern and my heart-rate returned to normal, I took a closer look at my resident blind pervert.

Maybe his facial features weren't so bad. I never did notice how cute his freckles looked. And his eyes could be pretty sometimes, you know, when his eye-rolling thing wasn't pissing me off. And his nose wasn't an ugly nose. I'm not saying it was a cute nose, but it wasn't an ugly one. And his eyelashes were long… they were long for a boy. I sort of like long eyelashes.

And maybe… maybe being a Ginger Kid wasn't really such a bad thing. Maybe ginger eyebrows weren't as hideous as I had previously assumed. And maybe abnormally-big, sticky-out ears were sort-of-kind-of-cute-ish-maybe, instead of obnoxious. And maybe having leprechaun ancestry wasn't a bad thing; I mean, he could share his gold with me.

And besides, his lips were in a pout, and looked rather kissable.

I hesitated a moment, then leaned forward and kissed the red-haired blighter right on the lips. I made it last a bit, because I could have sworn I tasted Lucky Charms on his mouth.

I pulled away after a minute and took a breath, my heart fluttering, and opened my eyes.

Iggy looked at me. Or, you know, towards me. His eyes were an immensely awesome blue, and I realized that I had never before noticed just how blue his eyes were before. The whole blind-thing kind of turned me off from looking into his eyes, because the thought that I was looking into his eyes but he wasn't looking back was sort of eerie. But it wasn't really eerie, not at all. It was sort of intense, and gave me tinglies in all the right places, and…

Wait a second. Open eyes means wakey-wakey. My mistletoe leprechaun was awake.

"Uh," was my eloquent defense to being caught practically attacking him in his sleep. If you kiss someone while they're unconscious, does that constitute as sexual assault? I think it might count as sexual assault. Thank goodness we mutant bird-kids don't follow the laws, or I might be busted as a sexual predator. Yikes.

"If you hadn't said anything, you probably could have gotten away with it," Iggy said. "I thought it was a dream until you shot off into one of your long and quite intricately-detailed excuses. I'm not sure if I can find a way to reply to 'Uh.'"

"Buh," I followed up intelligently.

"Oh, Max, you know I just can't go up against your stunning intellect and carefully prepared rebuttal, but somehow I feel that you can't wiggle your way out of this one."

"I can try," I croaked, leaning away from my leprechaun's intensely alluring gaze… No, wait, I did not just call him my leprechaun…

Iggy grabbed my wrist, stopping me from withdrawing any further. I tried to avoid his gaze, but his stupid, idiotic crooked leprechaun smile drew me in.

"Don't," he said simply. "Don't try."

I choked on air for a second, making a strangled sort of croaking noise. I'm sure it was extremely attractive.

"We're still under the mistletoe," Iggy said. I stared at his stupid Ginger Kid hair and his moronic freckles and his not-ugly nose and his luscious eyelashes and obnoxiously kissable lips. Did it really matter that he was descended from leprechauns? I mean, the kid had forsaken dinner and snow and bathroom breaks to wait for me under the mistletoe. That was pretty romantic, especially for a leprechaun.

"Iggy Charles Brian Leprechaun Griffiths," I muttered to him, "I better get some of your gold."

"As much as you want," Iggy whispered.

I was right. It was Lucky Charms I tasted on his mouth. The little devil had been sneaking breakfast cereal up here all day. No wonder he was able to withstand the alluring aroma of the delicious dinner I cooked.