2012: ghosts of christmas plot

[scurlock]

He'd avoided the majority of the in-bar festivities by spending the day outdoors working in the stables, but once night had fallen and the cold had set in, he'd forced himself back inside. Christmas Eve was a better holiday than New Year's Eve, in his opinion, but the entire time of year always reminded him of what used to be - and it wasn't something he particularly enjoyed dwelling on.

After a shower and taking dinner in his room, he'd retired to bed early.



(It's the glowing that wakes him.)


Doc squints against the light coming from the corner of the room - and then feels his heart stop when he realizes that it's not just a light, but a figure. His fingers curl around the grip of the Colt revolver that stays hung on the headboard in its holster, and while he doesn't draw (this figure doesn't seem threatening) he's definitely aware and alert.

And wondering what the blazes is going on.

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[scurlock]

This is different, and something that he didn't entirely expect.

Caution painting his facial features, he steps forward - though to be quite honest, 'caution' is his default expression most days, given everything that he's been through and lived through.

But he does not hesitate in extending his hand to the figure.

"The other two made sense, past and present," he says. "I ain't quite sure where we're intendin' to go."

(How can he chose his own future vision if he doesn't know what is going to happen?)

[christmas_future]

The mistake is in thinking that he chooses anything. Or that she does.

Her hand closes around his, grip cold and immutable as granite.

Then she takes them a step forward, two --

Around them fold the shadows, and when they fall back again, both the spirit and Josiah are somewhere else.

[scurlock]

The shadows fade from black (so thick he can hardly even breathe) to charcoal-grey and then to a brilliant, blinding white that hits them with a burst of bone-chilling cold that cuts through the clothes he's wearing.

They're standing in the middle of a snowstorm, a blizzard, really, and the wind whips her cloak around them with a ferocious intensity; it gusts so strongly that he's nearly knocked off his feet and into the deep drifts they're standing in.

"Fargin' hell--"

He has no idea where they are.

But there is a treeline he can just barely made out through the swirling snow, so he sets off for it. Her hand is still gripped tightly in his, but she doesn't seem to fight the progress towards the relative 'safety' of the stand of ancient hemlocks in the distance.

He has to struggle through the drifts, each step numbing his legs and feet to the point where they feel as if they're solid blocks of ice.

Once they finally reach the treeline, the snow lessens (but the cold does not).

Doc wipes the snow from his face and focuses his eyes to the shaded area, a welcome respite from the blinding whiteout - and then notices that they're not alone. A small cabin sits dark in the clearing, seemingly empty.

He trudges toward it - hoping it's unlocked...

[christmas_future]

Indeed it is unlocked, though the ghost makes no move to open it herself.

This is Josiah's to do, if he will.

And the relative emptiness within --

Who that belongs to is anyone's guess.

[scurlock]

He does indeed open the door, closing it behind them to ward of some of the chill that hangs heavy in the air - though it is only just barely warmer within the tiny building than it is outside.

No fire has burned in the hearth in some time, and the layers of dust and dirt that cover every surface show no evidence of being disturbed in many, many years. A draft swirls through the cabin, bringing a small drift of snow inside through a broken window pane on the far wall.

Shivering, he moves towards the mantle, where a rusted (though he can hardly tell for the coating of grime and patina) blade sits, leaned up against the rough-hewn stones.

And then the air stills, and the howling of the wind cuts off abruptly - the room is silent, save for his breathing, which has gone ragged due to the cold that's burning his lungs with each inhalation.

(It feels a bit like he's trapped in a cave or tomb with a decreasing amount of oxygen available, and that reminds him of sitting in the pit beneath the gallows in the middle of Lincoln's town square, waiting for the trapdoor above to open - and his likely hanging to occur.)

Doc swallows roughly, and glances around, looking for a way out. The whiteout outside would be better than this. Anything would be better than this place.

[christmas_future]

The ghost's hand sits firmly on his shoulder, bone-cold and heavy, as if to make sure that he sees.

Maybe, too, to make certain that he understands.

Then her grip shifts to his wrist, tugging lightly as they move back into shadow --

Returning to Milliways, and a different sort of silence.

[scurlock]

As the world shifts in reverse, so do the shadows - white to grey to black - before they're returned to Milliways.

But they're not the hallway.

They're in his bedroom, in the staff hallway; Doc looks around for the figure, but all he gets is a glimpse of shadow that ripples and fades into non-existence, as quickly as it came. He shivers, reminded of the biting cold they'd just stepped from, and makes his way to fetch a heavy coat from the rack near the door.

It may still be early, but he won't be going back to sleep. The crowded Christmas-morning bar will be better than this silence that permeates the apartment.

He wants a cup of coffee, with bourbon. And marshmallows.