Secret Santa 005
Title: I'd Heard of 'No Room at the Inn' (But this is just getting Ridiculous)
Summary: "What do you mean, 'the car won't start'?"
Pairing: N/A, gen.
Rating: PG (language here and there, but nothing awful)
Here’s the thing: Tyson likes department stores. He likes them a lot. Especially around Christmas - his inner child (who takes over at the least provocation) gets unreasonably excited over the lights and the trees and the crappy Christmas music, even if it has been blaring out nationwide since early September: three months of constant playing cannot diminish the glory of Frosty the Snowman, ok?
Getting lost in a building the size of a decent multi-storey car park is practically a Christmas tradition. And if he’s got money to spend and time to spend it, why shouldn’t he lose an entire day to self-indulgent consumerism? It’s not like he’s got time on tour, and this way he doesn’t have to join the Christmas Eve stampede of last minute shoppers. It’s win/win.
But just because he likes the department store experience, doesn’t mean he’d want to spend the night in one. Which is, of course, exactly what happens.
**
“What do you mean, the car won’t start?”
“It’s not just the car,” Chris says, wearily, coming over to perch on the chair opposite Tyson’s swing-set. Having been round kitchenware, household appliances and power tools, they’ve ended up in garden furniture. “I talked to the guy at the desk. No-one’s going anywhere until the snow stops, and that’s not gonna be any time soon.”
“We’ve got jump leads, right?” Tyson says. “We could jump-start the car, push it out onto the road -”
Chris raises his eyebrows. “Dude, there’s no way in hell I’m freezing my ass off trying to get the car to start. And even if it did start, we’d be skidding all over the road. That’s some ice out there, and my idea of a good Christmas is one where the car doesn’t get twisted into a pretzel and we don’t end up in the ER. Sorry, man. We’re staying put.”
“What?”
“Yeah. They’re letting people sleep here ‘til the snow stops. C’mon, it’ll be fun!” he grins, and Tyson looks back at him, gloomily, slumping down further in his swinging chair (The Whole Home ‘Tampa’ Outdoor Garden Swing, and who in their right mind would pay $450 for that, Tyson thinks, distractedly).
“Fun. Gaylor, essentially, we’re trapped in a giant box. How is that ‘fun’?” Tyson’s claustrophobia really doesn’t like the idea of being stuck somewhere without an escape route. “Fuck, I hate Canada!”
“No, you don’t.”
“Oh, I do. I hate Canada. And I hate snow. And I hate you,” he snaps at a returning Toad. Toad looks surprised.
“What did I do?”
“You… invited us here,” Tyson finishes, lamely, and ok, maybe he doesn’t hate Toad. Maybe he just hates Canada. Or maybe just this department store. Whatever. The car is apparently screwed to hell, and he’s facing a night spent on the floor of Sears Toronto Branch. Reasonable doesn’t come into this situation.
“He’s just pissed about the snow,” Chris explains, hat pulled right down over his eyes in an effort to combat the cold outside. Toad looks a little confused. They’re in Canada. Canada plus winter equals snow. What’s the problem? Tyson can almost see him thinking it, and his scowl deepens.
“Saulnier, we’ve been snowed in a department store and I am blaming you.”
“Ok,” Toad agrees, affably. “Anyone seen Mike and Nick?”
“Jewellery,” Chris says, yawning. “Picking up something for the girls.”
Toad pauses. “Fuck. Yeah. I should do that. What about you?”
“Got my present already,” Chris grins, smugly as Toad pulls a face and slopes off. Glancing over at Tyson, he rolls his eyes. “C’mon, dude, cheer up.”
“Um. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a store-wide announcement. As the weather at the moment is making driving conditions difficult, we’ll be providing food and beds for those who won’t be able to get home tonight. Er, would everyone please gather in Sport and Recreation so staff can do a headcount?”
“We’re all going to die,” Tyson moans, quietly, and Chris snorts.
“It’s really not that bad, Ty. It’s just snow. And hey, I thought you liked the whole Christmas shopping shit -”
“- they’re going to lock the doors and release the zombies, like Dawn of the Dead. It’ll be carnage. We’ll never make it out alive. Fuck it,” he finishes, miserably, “murdered by zombies three days before Christmas. What a shitty way to die.”
Chris looks at him, oddly. “I’m cancelling your subscription to the Sci Fi channel.” He stands up, stretching. “C’mon, let’s go. I’m bored of furniture; s’not like we’re gonna be hauling it back to Oklahoma, anyway.”
“Where are we going?” Tyson asks, as Chris virtually tows him down an escalator.
“Down to Sports and Recreation. That’s where we’ve got to meet, isn’t it? Anyway, I want to find Mike and Nick; I’m tired of coping with you all by myself.”
“Your words hurt me, Gaylor.”
Sports and Recreation takes up almost the entire floor, but a crowd of angry snow-bound people isn’t exactly easy to miss. Following the telltale sounds of irritation, Tyson and Chris wind up near Hockey and Accessories with a load of other unfortunate shoppers, all crowded round one, harassed-looking store rep.
“Ok, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming down so quickly. A member of staff will come round to take your names. There’ll be food provided in the restaurant from six…”
Someone bumps Tyson’s shoulder and he turns round. Nick’s grinning from ear to ear, brandishing a sparkling pendant and chandelier earrings two inches from Tyson’s nose.
“Got ‘em,” he says, happily, and Tyson grins back.
“Nice, dude. She’ll love it.”
“Here’s hoping,” Nick says, grimacing anxiously.
“Sure she will. And if she doesn’t, we can sell it on Ebay, right?” Nick laughs, and Tyson slings an arm around his shoulders. “So, Nick Wheeler. We’re trapped inside a department store for the night and there may or may not be zombies after us. What do you suggest we do?”
Nick raises his eyebrows. “Play Guitar Hero ‘til the Sun comes up?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
**
Mike gets to Electronics first, and winds up playing a ferocious game of Halo against a thirteen-year-old boy. They’re pretty evenly matched, and a small crowd gathers to watch as the fight becomes even fiercer. Over the sounds of both parties shouting out advice and encouragement and the occasional burst of machine gun fire, Tyson hears the crackle of the tannoy once again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the store is closing now. Food is being provided in the cafeteria, and we will try to ensure that as many people as possible get beds for the night. Thank you.”
“Well, we’ve got thirty seconds to run before they release the zombies,” he says, aloud, before elbowing Nick in the ribs. “Hey, Wheeler!”
Nick tears his eyes away from the Halo battle. “What?”
“If you see a zombie, run, ok? Save yourself.”
“Gotcha,” Nick replies, solemnly, and turns back to the television.
**
The rest of the evening is pretty uneventful. Mike graciously loses his Halo game on the pretext that he didn’t want to ruin the kid’s evening (“Bullshit, Kennerty. No one plays for three hours and just gives up. The kid totally kicked your ass, didn’t he?”), and then helps Nick, Chris and Toad forcibly restrain Tyson from playing Dirty Little Secret on Guitar Hero (“Dude, no. Seriously, we can play it on those real guitars we’ve got at home. Remember those? We don’t need the attention, c’mon. Tyson, you get up there, I swear to God -”).
They while away the time playing on the X-box and watching Sky. Three people come over to ask for autographs, but apart from that, everyone leaves them alone. Nick says it’s because people want to respect their privacy, but Tyson likes to think it’s because they’re all stuck in a department store, and they’re all in the same boat, no matter who they are and what they normally do for a living. There might be a bit of Christmas spirit involved as well. In any case, it’s them against the zombies, and Tyson’s taking no chances.
It’s past ten when Toad announces that he’s hungry, and they all traipse down to the cafeteria to see what’s left of supper. Considering the staff had a matter of hours to get things together, they’ve done pretty well. The food may not be hot, but it’s edible, and as they all open their bottles of Coke (beer would have been preferable, but it’s a department store, and alcohol is in short supply) and unwrap their sandwiches, Tyson looks round at their group - Nick, frowning, is making a last-minute Christmas list, Mike steals Chris’ sandwich while Chris texts his girlfriend, Toad watches the resulting squabble with an amused expression - and feels a strong wave of affection for all of them. It’s probably that, combined with the weird events of the day, that makes him stand up, holding his bottle of Coke.
“While we’re all trapped in here with no opportunity of escape, I’d just like to -”
“Oh, God, you’re going to make a speech, aren’t you?”
“Shut up. Look,” Tyson clears his throat, and shifts the fast-warming bottle to his other hand, “I know this year hasn’t been the easiest, and we’ve had a few problems -,”
“You call ‘nearly losing your leg’ a few problems?”
“ - but I wanna say, despite all of that, I’ve had a great, terrifying year, and there’s no one else I’d rather have spent it with. So, yeah. I love you guys. Thanks.”
He raises his bottle and drinks, grinning at them. They grin back, and there’s a moment of silence before Nick and Toad start throwing bread at him and Chris pretends to sob on Mike’s shoulder.
“I take it back, I hate you guys.”
**
“Y’know, I thought I was done sleeping in hammocks when I left the Boy Scouts,” Tyson mutters, as the ceiling rocks, queasily above his head. They’re back in garden furniture again, as the beds downstairs were taken by the time any of them felt like going to bed.
Mike sniggers. “You were in the Boy Scouts? How did I not know this?”
“He was a fuckin’ terrible Boy Scout,” Nick says, with what Tyson feels is unwarranted glee. “They kicked him out after a year -”
“Wheeler, you liar. They did not kick me out, I left of my own free will,” Tyson says, with as much dignity as he can muster. “Anyway, my unfailing Scout resourcefulness will come in handy when the zombies attack.”
“Oh my God, there are no fucking zombies -”
“Can y’all shut up so I can get some sleep?” Chris’ voice floats over from the far corner, and everyone obligingly falls silent. “Thank you.”
It’s three am, and Tyson’s exhausted, but he can’t sleep. Twisting, restlessly in his hammock - remind him never to get one of these things - he spots Nick on the floor, hammock abandoned, and pokes him with his foot.
“Hey, Nick?”
“Mmph?” Nick mumbles, sleepily.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Mmph.”
Tyson grins into the darkness and settles down to wait for morning.