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Story Notes:

In the past, my Christmas stories have tended to have a rather cheerily festive tone.

While I was always trying for honesty in those stories (yes, even when I was including ghosts weighed down by chains of pesticide barrels and stories about Santa present pranks), this year I kept finding myself thinking about the honest stories from the other side, the stories many people experience but don't seem to be told as often.

To them, to you, I wish you a peaceful season.

-Penny

DISCLAIMER: The name "Jericho" and all character names and trademarks associated with the television program are the intellectual property of Junction Entertainment, Fixed Mark Productions, CBS Paramount Television and/or CBS Studios, Inc. The following story is a work of fan fiction intended solely as an intellectual exercise without profit motive. No infringement of copyright is intended or should be implied.

Special thanks to Skyrose for all her help and encouragement!

 

 

 

 

 

 

The street teems with steady footsteps.

They move, shuffling gaits, up and down glistening pavement.

Pockets of light interject the dusky spaces that stretch between buildings, stands, metal poles, and boxes.

The whistling wind draws them all along.

Usual sounds surround them like air. Faint voices. Louder doors shutting, luggage dragging, cart pushing. Roar of footsteps, conspicuous missing silence.

Bells.

She turns towards the bells, and watches the dark outlines and dripping rooftops that stand before the bells.

It reminds her faintly of a ghost sound. Maybe what is missing from the shuffling sounds usually echoing these streets.

The cold air kisses her dry cheeks, long accustomed to the quiet, yet she continues to stare in the direction of the bells. She follows the sound the same way she follows her instinct most days.

Her march is purposeful, though she doesn't know where she is going or what she is looking for. That is the way she always moves.

She turns a corner and there are more people walking towards the bells. Perhaps they remember the day and want to remind themselves of something. Past memories of slippered footsteps and sticky fingers and obnoxious toys making the same sound over and over. Current mantras and shaky ideas about deities and reason and rhyme. Maybe just a little time away from the slick streets and slicing winds and dark corners so many of them inhabit, just trying to believe in tomorrow morning. Whatever people believe in these days.

They're going inside the big old wooden doors, raggedy figures hunching against the damp cold, hugging arms around themselves. The steps are black with rain and they reflect the glowing windows. The cathedral's silhouette against the night sky is impressive still, like an old peacock drawing himself up to show off his colours and give an illusion of youth for a few moments. Tonight, the lights in the window glitter through royal blues and candy reds, painting the stories sometimes still told within its walls. If you look in this direction, the glass catches your eye. You don't notice the crumbling bricks, the blackened side wall, like you would in the daylight.

She makes her way up the steps, with careful footing as the slick steps are almost icy.

Inside, the stale air is crowded with so many new breaths. So many bodies crowd into the seats, and her nose wrinkles at the close confinement. She makes her way down the side aisle, vaguely registering the paintings and statues, arising as if climbing out of the ancient walls tonight. She has been here before. One time it was a site for a meeting, with officials giving whatever vague information they could hand out. Once it was a make-shift clinic, struggling to sort out the diseased and the candidates for inoculation. Usually the older, flatter faces of the paintings and sculptures seem to blend into the background, the live people making more sense and more noise.

Tonight they're noticeable because they are still. The shadowed faces of the living and breathing people sitting in the pews are a flurry, even as they listen and follow the proceedings happening up on the altar. Thousands of thoughts, worries, remembrances and distractions flash across the faces, murmurings softly making their way into the din, and nothing but the stone and paint faces are still, staring down with a detached height.

The wood is creaking under her as she sinks back. Knees creak and old pages of ratty books flutter. Some whisper. She doesn't mind. She didn't come to hear the stories, and neither did many of them. They are mostly here for what she wants. A rest. A seat out of the rain. A moment to stop moving.

The music. She closes her eyes briefly at the opening notes. The organ is the only thing not crumbling, sooty, or wizened in this place. This is the sound usually missing. Her throat catches, though she doesn't open her mouth.

The notes dance up and down, disappearing into the huge, shadowed corners and still surviving in the dark. They feel like hot fingers poking her ribs. She hugs her arms around her. When the priest stands or sits, she follows, though many of them remain slumped in the seats.

It is over fast, and some of the crowd thins as some of them make quick exits, anxious to finish journeys and get off the streets.

Some of them have nowhere as definite to go, and they linger on the solid wood benches.

She watches for a moment, still as one of the statues, pretending as long as she can that she can look from far away and be unchanged.

Some of them are talking in small groups along the sides of the room. Perhaps they have come together, or maybe they're breaking a pattern for the unusual night, talking to strangers.

There is a small crowd gathered by the table near the side of the altar. She knows what they are doing, though she can only get glimpses of their hands every so often. Someone made sure there were enough candles tonight.

In the old days, this was the most common of activities. It didn't just happen in churches. Candles burned from benches at the side of the road, on food carts, in doorways. Especially churches though. In the old days, she'd done it herself. Whenever she found her way into a church, she'd light one for them. Especially for her. It would feel wasteful anywhere else, but in the dark musky air of this room, it seemed okay to give over to fear and grief and light one. You could stare at the flame without getting too close, and slip back into the shadows before anyone said anything. In the old days, she'd done it often enough.

She sighs quietly. The old days weren't very long ago. But they're so old now.

The bells sound again and remind her of a circle. She takes a place in the line. The press of people on either side is disconcerting but they're a more orderly group than some, and she only gets elbowed once. She smells incense mixed with sweat. The flickers of the candles cast a new kind of light on the walls.

She waits and watches the people ahead of her in line. A woman with a stoop lights hers with a steady hand. A man with lines on his face shakes as he holds his candle and stretches it towards the ledge. A man with sharp cheek bones blinks hard. A woman clutches her bag to her as she lights her candle. When they are done, they take a moment to look at their work. Some kneel and say a prayer, though most are getting out of the way of the others who want a moment to light the candles. They step to the side, through the narrow space alongside the altar, following the dark passage to some other place – an exit to the street perhaps.

She watches a man standing with a younger girl, his hand lightly touching her shoulder. A woman fiddling with a ring on her finger, a motion in contrast to the straight lines of her austere coat and boots.

A girl is staring back at her.

She pauses. The girl is off to the side of the table, a little ways back, near the wall, avoiding the steps of those trying to leave. She's so far into the shadows you wouldn't see her, but she's holding a taper and the light touches her face. Her hair is long and straight, framing her face. Her skin is smooth and her eyes are bright. She smiles calmly, with just a hint of something else behind her eyes. Then she is gone.

The woman moves forwards before she realizes her feet have started walking. It's only a few strides to where the face was, moments earlier, but the woman turns in a circle once she gets there, wondering where she's gone. Other people are still trying to leave this way, and they jostle around her, but she is only searching for one of them. Some are walking to the right instead of the left, towards the main aisle and the other exit, the stairs where she came in. She scans the crowd in that direction quickly.

So many arms and backs and coats and scarves, but her heart jolts for a moment as she sees a slight figure, long, silky hair, slipping between them at the edge of the aisle.

She moves quickly towards the retreating figure.

She notices her own breathing, getting faster, like it always used to. She looks older, doesn't she? A real woman now, not the girl she left on the driveway, lips pouted and teenage troubled face staring as the car retreated.

She's taller, isn't she? Her limbs are thin but sturdy enough. Moving fast. That's not really new either. Her pursuer doesn't dare to smile.

She walks along the aisle, towards where she last saw the tall young woman. A flash. That's what her smile had been. But it had been real, not the strained expression worn by most people plodding along the streets, scrambling in the dark. A small but real smile surviving on her face.

She's older, isn't she? Her eyes seemed to say so. Older, that was normal. It has been a while. Older in the best way – still lively, still seeing, still making sense of things and making her way through them. It would be too much to imagine that she hasn't seen things, heard them, and been aged. But her pursuer is glad the time seems to have made her strong.

She reaches the edge of the narthex. The crowd is still swelling here, a confusion of people trying to leave and people staying, talking to one another, to the workers who take their posts here every week, to the religious types in their robes. Where is she in this melee? She can't see the long brown hair, but she edges her way through them.

She's beautiful, isn't she? Wasn't she always? Did she tell her? It wouldn't have been good to let it get to her head. Besides, the most real parts of beautiful would be too hard to say out loud. It wasn't the gardenia shampoo, the necklace from Tiffany's, the carefully groomed nails. She remembers a messy halo of hair over wrinkled pyjamas, a smile stained with raspberries, and a sleepy proclamation of love on a harrowing morning. That was only one of the moments and she couldn't explain the beauty of it, but it went beyond every moment and any real word she could say.

A chill rattles her as she nears the open door, and though it's still crowded here, the cold winds are invading the tangle of people. The darkness outside is clearer, though the rain has turned to wet snow. She pulls her winter clothes closer around her and goes outside.

The steps stretch out in front of her again. Beyond them, the cold lights and shimmering shadows. She shields her eyes and searches. Searches through the stinging, the bone rattling wind, the voices circling her. Where has she gone? Is she safe? Will she survive her journey through these streets?

She reaches the bottom step and stands, her arms folded, steady as she can while the men and women continue to disperse around her. The night stretches endlessly, damp flurries and footsteps of the endless travellers. She looks, no longer seeing except the black, the lights, the edges of things.

She isn't there. Part of her knew it would be like this. It always was, back when she used to see her everywhere. He used to brush his hand along her cheek and whisper that they should be glad she wasn't here. And she would be.

She stands on the steps a little while longer, and lets herself think back, an activity best kept for special occasions. It happened all the other years, though she always forgot after. She wanted to wish her here. How much had her arms ached to hold her, had her voice trembled to call her her own? But she always stifled her tears and folded her arms tightly. It was better to know she wasn't here. She could be older. She could be taller. She would always be beautiful.

The bells still sound as she makes her way back up the steps, back through the crowd, back to the line of candle lighters. The line is still long and she steps up to the end, though one person remembers seeing her waiting and lets her go ahead. It's Christmas after all.

She watches more people without really seeing, but she feels the wishes they're making. The same they all make.

When it is her turn she lights her match slowly. The small spark of light is comforting and so is the familiar scent. The wick is stubborn but finally catches, and she holds up her candle to stare into the glow.

As always, she thinks about what she will wish, as though it is difficult to decide.

Do I wish you're safe? She wonders. That you're healthy? Happy?

These wishes are too complicated, inviting political conjectures and the statistical probability that drains the life out of anyone you miss. Instead, she chooses simply.

Be how I dream you.

The snow has reverted to rain when she exits the church for good. She'll never know if it's tears on her face.

She walks along the teeming streets, holding onto her wish, though the small flame of the candle is long gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The room swims with circling voices.

The scattered lights and the presence of so many bodies, young and old, lounging around the tables, perching on stools, standing and walking and playing, give the room a hazy warmth.

The low whistle of the wind outside is barely audible under the clatter of voices, gifts and plates scraping across tabletops and floor, hands clapping together, and a lilting music coming from the jukebox.

Here and there, plates litter the tables, though most of the food is gone. The air still smells like spices and eggnog, though she sips hers slowly. Her stomach protests. No one has eaten too much but she isn't used to feeling this full either. It's a comfortable feeling though, and she slumps back in her chair, keeping still in the flurry of activity around her.

They're playing another game in the corner by the dartboard. Some kid is spinning around – Heather's guiding her so she doesn't tip over – and Emily's leading everyone else in counting. She can't really tell from this far away what the object of the game is but it seems to be inspiring some excited shouts.

Closer, one table over, a game of cards is lazily playing out. Jake smirks as Jimmy turns his best poker face on the circle. Bill has had too much eggnog to keep a straight face, and keeps snickering.

She smirks, and notices Dale is smirking too, though his gaze is pointed in another direction. She follows his eyes and spots the Hawkins family. The Hawkins parents rather, and she follows their discerning eyes to the other side of the room where Allison seems at the centre of a much quicker game of pool. She looks but doesn't have to look too far to figure out what's got Darcy's eyebrows raised. Scott Nystrom, grinning like a light bulb, and Allison grinning like she doesn't see.

She looks down at the table and chuckles to herself, but winces as a high pitched wail pierces her ear from much closer.

Mimi has the wailer by the arm and is bending down and trying to reason through gritted teeth. “You need to stop crying. I can't fix it if you keep screaming,” she says, her fingers fiddling with the necklace Tessa's been showing off for an hour. “It's not the end of the world, believe me, Mama lived through it.”

She smirks again as she watches the pair, an odd sense of understanding both sides creeping up on her. She's seen the end of the world too, and lots of bigger broken things than that little Polly Pocket party favour the toddler's still crying over. Then again, she remembers how one special thing that no one else understands can make your day, and the way Tessa's been flashing that pink plastic locket around ever since Santa handed it to her seems oddly familiar. She can't help but smile now as a still teary Tessa grins and Mimi replaces the locket around her neck, shaking her head and asking “What do you say?” She's certain she didn't glow quite so much back when it was hers, and it couldn't have been over fifteen years ago now, could it? It hadn't been her most prized possession and she'd easily tossed it into the gift pile when she'd found it by chance this year, under that step in the basement. Still, there was one tiny spark of remembrance when she watched the little girl grinning over it today.

Now the kid is laughing again, and Mimi sends her off to find her cousins with another shake of her head and almost eye roll, and there's no more screaming, but still a lot of noise filling the room.

There's something off. She tries to tease it out. There's the jukebox's familiar rattle, cranking out “Silver Bells,” merrily oblivious to how many cities are left to celebrate Christmastime. Faint, well-mannered frivolity from the reindeer games in the corner. Snippets of conversation. There's a strange sound under it, something running underneath, that she can't quite make out. Their voices are too much.

She isn't sure why, but she stands. Dale glances at her, eyebrows raised. “Want another drink?” she asks. There's no reason to be alarmed, of course. He shakes his head, pointing at his still half full glass of cider. He sends her a quick smile, she returns it, trying to reassure though vaguely wondering what the noise is at the same time, and she wanders across the room.

Eric's still wearing the costume and sitting in the chair. His daughter's sitting on one knee, his niece on the other, babbling away about something or other. Whether or not they've figured out he's not Santa, it doesn't seem to matter. Of course, she wonders what the fascination is with the guy in red anyway. This year, from the report she heard earlier, he continued his streak of questionable pranking, spending his overnight visit to Gail Green's house by leaving knitted socks on sleepers' feet, and moving the heavier sleepers into strange locations (apparently Andrew ended up in the bathtub and Siobhan in a laundry basket of towels, while Jake was curiously found in the kitchen next to the cookies). She was partly certain her own childhood self would never have recounted such events with glee but all this Santa had to do was hand out the trinkets and the young party guests seemed happy enough.

It isn't their giggles she's listening for though. She steps sideways, and then further towards the table where the card game has dissolved instead into a different display. Gray has probably started it, as he is sitting upright, raising his glass, looking dangerously close to standing up in his chair. The others at the table are holding their glasses too, though some look annoyed the talking's gone on this long. “To the border patrol!” he trills. “To the garden crew!” He sees her and gives her a small nod. “To the council!”

“To knowing when to say when!” chimes in Mimi. Jake and Bill laugh and she seems to be just warming up, as she heckles his next three testimonials. The others dissolve into laughter and sip their drinks as Gray continues to laud his fellow men and women.

She edges to the side of the room and slips around the corner, to the hallway leading to the bathroom, and it's a little quieter there, but she nearly bumps into Darcy and Allison. “Just fine,” Allison is saying.

“If you say so,” Darcy answers, and there's a knowing kind of smirk on her face, and Allison's look is smiling but equally fiery, and she's feeling suddenly like an intruder, though she isn't really. She backs away and makes her way back into the bigger room.

She dodges Sally Taylor, who's carrying a stack of ratty duo-tangs, which she promptly dumps on the big round table. Stanley and Mary are leaning against it, shifting through an even bigger collection of the booklets, and Gail is sitting in the booth doing the same. “Thanks, honey. Has your group decided if they want to start us off?” Mary asks, reaching to steady a stack of the duo-tangs before they slip off the edge of the table, as Stanley looks up from the book in his hands with dismay. “Another one missing 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'? This blows.”

Gail smiles and straightens another pile. “There are plenty here, and I wouldn't worry. You're a great leader and they're bound to catch on after a few days.”

“Who doesn't know 'The Twelve Days of Christmas' anyway?” asks Sally with a sly smile. She glances over at Mary. “And are you going to sing 'Santa Baby'?”

Before Mary can answer, Stanley is leaning over with a familiar challenging look on his face. “Come on. Your baby is Santa this year. What was it you said to Mimi last year? Here's your chance.”

Gail chuckles and glances over to see her laughing as well. “Skylar, you interested in joining us?”

Stanley and Mary glance towards her too. “Yeah, we could always use another music enthusiast,” adds Mary.

She smiles but lets them down easy with a small shake of her head. “Thanks, I'm sure you have it covered.”

They look at her a little longer. She feels suddenly strange, exposed almost, like someone stuck in a spotlight and forgetting their words, even though it's just Gail and Mary looking at her with those same looks they send her every other day of the year. She feels for some reason that it would be cowardly, letting someone down, if she were to break the eye contact so she looks back.

They break it, thankfully, Gail turning to ask Sally something more about “The Carol of the Bells” and Stanley and Mary returning to their previous debate.

She wonders again what it is she's looking for. There are just so many people in here, and even though most are relaxing and even the games are winding down in the corner, the whole place just hums with movement. Little actions seem magnified to fill up all the space. And yet there's something underneath that keeps getting away from her.

She nods politely at Russell as he glances up from his shuffling of the cards, and then at Heather and Jake, who've snagged the last chairs at the table. She gingerly reaches for her coat, quietly excusing herself as Archie leans forward in her former chair to free the part of the coat he was sitting on. Dale quickly stacks his cards and glances up at her. She leans in close to his ear. “I'm just going outside for a minute,” she says.

“What me to come?” he asks.

She shakes her head, and gives his shoulder a quick squeeze. “Just want a minute,” she says. She leans closer again. “Jake has a crappy hand,” she breathes. “But Heather's might be good.”

He smiles for just a second as she walks away. Of course Hawkins's is the hardest to guess at from the initial dealing. His poker face is as epic as his daughter's. Dale will just have to try to read him on his own.

She listens again, glancing at the room sideways as she pulls on her coat. She catches snatches of all the moments mixing together around her. “Come on, Bailey, put your money where your singing mouth is!” “I see your candy cane and I raise you...this weird duck ornament thing.” “Isn't it a little early to talk about raising candy canes – ouch!”

The teasing, the tinny carols, the laughing, but what is it she can't separate out? She reaches for the door and steps outside.

The low wind whistles in the black night, but the buildings of Main Street cushion her from most of the bite. She takes a cold delicious breath and a snowball whizzes by her.

There is a shout nearby, and a few more blurs of white zing across the street. They don't hit their intended targets, but crumble against walls.

Of course, it isn't an empty quiet out here either, she realizes. She couldn't have expected it to be, with the snow-fight already in full swing. It's a different kind of sound, though, than the lazily musical one she just left behind. Voices ring out in the velvety night air, some triumphant, some surprised staccato as some participants find themselves hit. Muffled crunching sounds layer upon the background as boots trample and dash through the snow to take cover or go on the offensive, and breathless laughter accompanies gentle thuds when they fall as casualties or as they reach the safety of cover and collapse.

She sees Sam and Woody dashing for the alley across the street, their shadows looming over the footprint spattered snow drifts. A team of girls of different sizes pelts them with snowballs as they run, and she recognizes Julie's multi-colour hat in the midst. She hugs her arms around herself, determinedly marching through the battleground, but keeping off to the side and looking around her. She hasn't fought this battle in a couple of years but she isn't sure any of them will be above lobbing one at her. Especially considering someone hit their sheriff with a big one earlier, before the fight even started.

She reaches the cover of the porch in front of Town Hall, and slowly mounts the steps. She crosses the porch and stoops down to brush snow off the steps on the other side. She sits, carefully ensconced in the shadows, leaning her back against the wall and her legs against the stone steps. She can see parts of the snowball fight going on, but if she leans back just enough, she can see the moon too. It's a half moon tonight, clear and yellow in the sea of black.

Again, she is conscious of the many things at once. The different sized kids running in the snow, diving heroically, laughing and whooping like they don't know what a real battle sounds like. Soft winds racing through the alleys and around their sleepy town. The soft snow filling up the spaces, making them seem denser, softer, more tightly packed. Her own teeth gently chattering as she folds her arms tightly.

She doesn't hear anything else. Beyond the voices of the people who've spilled out of the barely contained Christmas party, and the softer voices of the snow and wind around them, it's quiet. She wonders if that's what she was listening for all along. She lets out a deep sigh.

It's never completely quiet though. Just as tonight, the other sounds are not far away, she has always found there's no real quiet. No real absence to find. Some places are a lot closer to quiet of course. She's stared at summer skies and felt stars looking back at her, but no eyes looking back on the ground. She's sat in an empty coat closet and heard her heart thudding in her ears. She's waited in an empty hallway accompanied by ancient machinery beeping. There are always other voices and other pairs of eyes even in these desolate places.

There are always things that she can't hear too. Things that don't register along with singing voices, thudding bodies, solicitous looks and poker faces. Things she can't positively hear and hold onto, but they aren't fully absent either. There are moments like this, strange and off-putting ones, where things she can't hear or see or feel still tease at her in the back of her mind. She looks for them, reaches for them, and grasps nothing, but maybe somehow they're there anyway. So close by she can barely see, though her eyes prickle and sting as she tries anyway.

She hears laughter quite close by, and is distracted by the positive space filling in front of her. Shadows falling across the wall alert her before she realizes who it is. Allison and Scott are walking, not stumbling but not with their usual purposeful gait, and they are arm in arm. They're crossing the street quietly, but it seems, whispering things to each other, laughing. She smirks to herself. Old habits die hard.

She takes her eyes away from their retreating silhouette, becoming an unseeing accomplice, and instead she glances to the clock on the front of the bank, looming across the street. The clock hasn't worked in years, but they've left it there, a monument to their past perhaps or just an act of defiance when the well-meaning J&R reps were planning the upgrades to the mortar-torn Main Street. Snow has covered the clock so that it's a white circle against the brick, its still hands never interrupting the layer of white that's settled.

Her thoughts are interrupted again though, by a strange trio of figures who have daringly crossed the space between the store and the side of town hall to take shelter by the alley. She isn't surprised at the sight of Sean, some things really don't change, but she does do a double take at the drop in height between him and the comrades following behind him. She chuckles out loud and he glances up from his whispered instructions. For a moment he jumps, when he realizes she's sitting there in the shadows, but he recovers quickly enough.

“You're sure recruiting young now,” she says, with a hint of amusement as she realizes he's brushing snow off Clark's coat. There's something so mother hen about the way he straightens Johnny's scarf and retrieves Clark's fallen mitten next.

“I didn't recruit 'em, they were already out here,” he says with a shrug. “Figured it'd be best for Uncle Sean to look out for 'em. You know, for a real expert to teach 'em the ropes.” He bends down to whisper further instructions.

“Don't you think it's a little early to show them the ropes? I don't know if it's fair to put four-year-olds into snowball range,” she says, folding her arms and hiding a grin at the indignant looks on the little boys' faces.

“I'm four and a half, Skylar,” Johnny protests.

“I'm looking out for them,” Sean repeats, clapping them both on the shoulders. Clark drops the handful of snow he's been gathering.

“Okay, I won't tell Mimi you're letting her baby join the fight, I guess,” she says, brushing the snow off her own coat and stepping down the stairs. “But I won't be responsible for what happens when someone does.”

“She'll say thank you,” says Sean. “Right Clark?”

“I'm not a baby,” says Clark with an affable grin. He tosses a snowball towards the street. It goes a few feet and lands in the snow, but Sean pats him on the back and says “Awesome!”

She starts making her way back towards the bar and feels something cold hit her in the back. She turns and whoever threw it has ducked out of sight, but she can hear the little boys' voices saying “Leave Skylar alone!”

She laughs out loud, and as a team of girls rushes by, pelting snowballs in the direction of town hall, she puts out a hand to stop their leader.

“Hailey,” she says quickly, leaning in conspiratorially. The girl grins up at her, an eyebrow raised.

“Sean's only got two little kids with him. Your team can totally take him out. Just go easy on the kids. You could probably bring them to your side.” She winks and Hailey gives her a quick nod, with a breathless “Thanks.” She turns to the rest of the team, who've congregated against the Bailey's wall, and runs forwards to give them quickly whispered directions. She glances at Skylar once before she turns and calls “Attack!” They follow her, snowballs brandished in their hands.

Laughing again, she keeps to the wall herself as she watches the snowballs fly, the teams scatter and reorganize, and the victory dances continue. The Bailey's door opens and she doesn't turn to look, but she can hear his footsteps approaching.

“Remember when we used to give the orders?” he asks. She gives a nod and they both look out, smiling.

She steps a bit sideways so they're closer, and leans her head on his shoulder. “You okay?” he asks quietly. “Ready to leave?”

She considers, staring ahead at the bricks and sky, his scratchy coat and familiar shoulder against her cheek. Part of her wants to keep walking through the calm and solid night, keep walking through the layers of sound until she finds the one she couldn't hold onto here amidst the singing, playing, and laughing. She feels this restless call every now and then, and each time seems different until she recognizes it all of a sudden, and then it is too familiar. This, she realizes, is probably the same too.

Like always, some things will never be close enough to reach. Some things will pop into her head, into the things she hears and the places she looks, without her searching and some will be there in the shadows, slipping and sliding away whenever she looks, but in a way, there all the same.

“No,” she murmurs quietly. “I'd like to stay.” She glances sideways at him. “Long as you want to.”

He nods. “Have to see who wins the fight. And they haven't even finished putting out the desserts.”

“There's more?” she asks incredulously. He smirks.

They watch in silence for a few more moments. She is glad for the arm he puts around her, the whispered commentary he makes as they watch Julie and Sam's alliance struggle against the medium kids' team, and both teams combine to corner Sean again. She is glad for the clear moon, the quiet wind, the stinging live cold. The things she can hear and the things buried out of ear shot.

“The music extravaganza is about to start!” Stanley's cheerful voice booms from the door to the bar. “Hold your fire and come get warm!”

“There are hot drinks for everyone,” adds Mary, who's standing beside him and shivering already. “And Mama's already in her kerchief.” She pokes Stanley with a teasing grin.

“And it's way cooler than your cap,” says Stanley, patting his headgear and sending her a teasing look back before raising his eyebrows at an entirely snow-covered Sean, swinging a laughing Clark in his arms.

Dale laughs and steps towards the door. “You guys are doing your dramatic reading thing again?”

“Wouldn't be a real Christmas if Mimi and Eric didn't get to heckle us through it,” shrugs Stanley.

“Somehow I think Jake would miss it too,” adds Mary, wincing as Johnny hugs her around the waist. “How did you get so soaked?” she asks, shivering again. He shakes out his mop of hair in response, and wet snow flings in every direction.

Heather appears in the doorway to announce that Sally is about to kick things off with her bell carol, but if there are any kids who want to join the sugar plum gang she can hook them up.

Most of the brave snow-fight veterans are stampeding inside now, some eagerly volunteering their talents and some teasing each other.

“Hey, Skylar, do you mind doing lights for us?” asks Mary.

“We just need them flipped on and off. We'll tell you when,” adds Stanley.

She shares a quick look with Dale and they both smile. “Yeah, sure,” she agrees.

Stanley holds the door as the last kid, a pigtailed girl from Hailey's platoon, trails inside, and Mary quickly follows, her arm around Johnny as he kicks snow off his boots.

“We hang out around weird people,” Dale whispers to her as they follow the others inside.

She grins but doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to. The sounds spill out the door as they go inside.

She takes her place by the lights, the crowd in the room shifting as the music begins. She breathes in, the hot air easing her raw throat. She closes her eyes for a moment, opens them, breathes in again and smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The music enthusiasts' song choices include:

"The Twelve Days of Christmas," a carol first published in England in 1780.

"Santa Baby," written in 1953 by Joan Javits and Philip Springer, first performed by Eartha Kitt with Henri Rene and his orchestra. 

"Carol of the Bells," composed in 1904 by Ukrainian composer Mykola Leontovych, with English lyrics later composed by Peter J. Wilhousky.

"Silver Bells," composed by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans, first performed by Bob Hope and Marilyn Maxwell in the film The Lemon Drop Kid, released in 1951. 

 

"Mama in her kerchief" and her husband, a narrator who wears a cap, appear in Clement C. Moore's poem "A Visit From St. Nicolas," first published anonymously in 1823 and popularly known as "T'was the Night Before Christmas" today. 

 

 



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