Fannish Advent #13: I'll Be Home For Christmas.
Title: I'll Be Home For Christmas.
Rating: R.
Fandom: Sparrow Hill Road.
Synopsis: What is Christmas like on the ghostroads?
***
Christmas used to be easier.
People have never been completely comfortable with hitchhikers, but there used to be an air of Christian charity that enveloped the country during the month of December, making people who would normally hit the gas when they saw me by the side of the road pull over and ask where I was going. I was their Little Match Girl, their good deed for the night, and if it got me past the city limits, I didn't really care. You take what you can get, when you're dead, and someone who thinks they're doing you a life-changing favor is usually willing to go the extra mile, fork over some unused outerwear or spring for a cup of coffee.
But that was then, in a cotton-candy past that probably never existed. This is now, and I guess that if I hadn't died, I'd be one of those frightened little old ladies refusing to risk letting a scary, scary teenager into their car. Even if it looked like I might freeze to death, standing alone in the snow. They don't know that isn't true, but they rev their engines, all the same.
"I hate Christmas," I mutter, shoving my hands a little deeper into the pockets of my jeans. It doesn't help. Without a coat, I'm not solid, and when I'm not solid, there's nothing in the world that gets me warm. At least the snow can't make me any colder. One of the few, questionable, advantages of the grave.
"I'm sure Christmas hates you, too," says Emma, stepping up beside me.
I may be dead, but I can still be startled. I flinch to the side before I fully register who's speaking, then turn to glare. "Uncool," I accuse.
"But funny." Emma's smile is utterly without guile. She doesn't use her bean sidhe gifts very often; one of them involves not being heard when she doesn't want to be. Her battered old Volvo is parked by the side of the road only about twenty feet away, having approached with a stealth the US Military would envy. "Shouldn't you be off playing Ghost of Christmas Past for some poor schmuck?"
"Not this year. I missed the sign-ups."
"Too bad. I know how much you enjoy that gig."
I shrug, trying to express my lack of concern over missing the chance to spend another Christmas Eve harassing strangers. She's right; it's a good time. "So what are you doing out here?"
"Looking for match girls," Emma says, and smiles. "Come back to the Last Dance. There's eggnog. Your chariot awaits." Her smile grows a bit, little Irish girl who isn't Irish at all, standing in her shirtsleeves in a blizzard, trying to woo a ghost into following her home. "I even brought you a coat."
"Sure," I say, the snow blowing through me like I'm not even there at all. "How strong's the nog?"
"Tonight," she says solemnly, "you will be visited by three spirits..."
The wind carries our laughter away.
***
Monday's fandom suggested by tibicina. To suggest a fandom, pairing, or situation for the today, please comment on this post. Only comments on THIS POST will be considered; you have two hours, while I race to catch up.
Rating: R.
Fandom: Sparrow Hill Road.
Synopsis: What is Christmas like on the ghostroads?
***
Christmas used to be easier.
People have never been completely comfortable with hitchhikers, but there used to be an air of Christian charity that enveloped the country during the month of December, making people who would normally hit the gas when they saw me by the side of the road pull over and ask where I was going. I was their Little Match Girl, their good deed for the night, and if it got me past the city limits, I didn't really care. You take what you can get, when you're dead, and someone who thinks they're doing you a life-changing favor is usually willing to go the extra mile, fork over some unused outerwear or spring for a cup of coffee.
But that was then, in a cotton-candy past that probably never existed. This is now, and I guess that if I hadn't died, I'd be one of those frightened little old ladies refusing to risk letting a scary, scary teenager into their car. Even if it looked like I might freeze to death, standing alone in the snow. They don't know that isn't true, but they rev their engines, all the same.
"I hate Christmas," I mutter, shoving my hands a little deeper into the pockets of my jeans. It doesn't help. Without a coat, I'm not solid, and when I'm not solid, there's nothing in the world that gets me warm. At least the snow can't make me any colder. One of the few, questionable, advantages of the grave.
"I'm sure Christmas hates you, too," says Emma, stepping up beside me.
I may be dead, but I can still be startled. I flinch to the side before I fully register who's speaking, then turn to glare. "Uncool," I accuse.
"But funny." Emma's smile is utterly without guile. She doesn't use her bean sidhe gifts very often; one of them involves not being heard when she doesn't want to be. Her battered old Volvo is parked by the side of the road only about twenty feet away, having approached with a stealth the US Military would envy. "Shouldn't you be off playing Ghost of Christmas Past for some poor schmuck?"
"Not this year. I missed the sign-ups."
"Too bad. I know how much you enjoy that gig."
I shrug, trying to express my lack of concern over missing the chance to spend another Christmas Eve harassing strangers. She's right; it's a good time. "So what are you doing out here?"
"Looking for match girls," Emma says, and smiles. "Come back to the Last Dance. There's eggnog. Your chariot awaits." Her smile grows a bit, little Irish girl who isn't Irish at all, standing in her shirtsleeves in a blizzard, trying to woo a ghost into following her home. "I even brought you a coat."
"Sure," I say, the snow blowing through me like I'm not even there at all. "How strong's the nog?"
"Tonight," she says solemnly, "you will be visited by three spirits..."
The wind carries our laughter away.
***
Monday's fandom suggested by tibicina. To suggest a fandom, pairing, or situation for the today, please comment on this post. Only comments on THIS POST will be considered; you have two hours, while I race to catch up.