FIC: "An Atheist's Christmas Carol" (Panfandom)
Merry Christmas, gang. Since Yuletide is completely done - 2031 stories this year! - I'll share one of my procrastination methods with you. To polish my style and keep the tone I was going for, I wrote drabbles any time I was stuck. This is the result. They can be read individually, but honestly, if you want the full effect, read the whole thing. It flows better that way.
Title: The Atheist's Christmas Carol
Author: Drea (d_generate_girl)
Rating: PG-13, for adult content and language.
Disclaimer: I own none of these properties, people, characters, or stories that I'm twisting so nefariously to my own purposes. I also don't own the song "An Atheist's Christmas Carol", by Vienna Teng. If I did, I'd be a rich, rich girl and wouldn't need to wait tables to pay off my college tuition, now would I? And really, suing is so not Christmasy.
Spoilers: Consider yourself spoiled for all aired canon, but specifically “Crossroads II” for BSG, “Merry Little Christmas” for House, “Christmas Bells” from the original musical of RENT, “Joan Rivers” for nip/tuck, “Noel” for TWW, and the Tribute to the Troops for WWE.
Summary: Six friendships. Six Christmases. Six ways to bridge the gap.
~*~*~*~
It’s the season of grace coming out of the void
Where man is saved by a voice in the distance
It would have been snowing on Caprica right about now, he remembers, as he walks the corridors of Galactica amid the blaring red lights of Condition One.
“You should’ve left me on Caprica. I’d have died along with everyone else and been happier for it.”
He meant it then. He means it more, now. Then, it was Bill lying with his chest cracked open, leaving him to deal with Bill’s rebellious son and his confederate, the schoolteacher masquerading as a politician. Then, it was a simple wish for the world to be taken off his shoulders and put back onto Bill’s, where it belonged.
Now, the world itself is different.
He not only sees things differently, he feels things differently. Each press of Bill’s fingers to his skin causes him to marvel that the sensation isn’t real. Each touch of Bill’s lips to his own triggers a shudder - is this it? Is this the kiss during which Bill figures out Saul isn’t human? Feels the machine under the man and turns him over to Laura Roslin and her pet airlock?
Is this the last time they’ve got, before the sympathetic glitch in his programming switches off and he carries out the mission that Sharon Valerii could not?
It goes around and around in his head, like that damned music. Bill’sgonnafindout. Bill’sgonnafindout.
“It’s good to have you back, Saul.”
And then it stops.
~*~*~*~
It’s the season of possible miracle cures
Where hope is currency and death is not the last unknown
Jimmy hasn’t bought him a Christmas present for ages. It’s not something they do.
Not since the infarction.
The year before it happened, he and Stacy had gone out for dinner with Wilson and Bonnie, and they’d exchanged gifts. Wilson had turned five separate shades of red when he unwrapped the pair of boxers Greg had gotten him - bright blue with little gold menorahs and Stars of David on them - and Stacy inhaled half her wine in response. Wilson had retaliated with a copy of “Butch Lesbian and the Lapdance Kid” and it was Bonnie’s turn to drink away the mortification.
But after the infarction - after Stacy had left and Mindy the investment banker had replaced Bonnie - it didn’t feel right.
Not when he was dragging twenty pounds of dead muscle and tissue around, taking a half-hour just to get to the fucking can. Not when he’d try and lock himself in the bathroom with his Vicodin and a bottle of scotch, and Wilson would just pick the lock and drag his sorry ass back to bed.
You don’t say “thank you” to that with just a pair of boxers or lesbian porn. Well, you could, but it would have to be really good porn.
So they stopped doing the gift thing. After last year, with Tritter and actually overdosing, Greg figured Jimmy would want to bypass Christmas as quickly as possible.
And nothing shocks him more than the package Jimmy tosses on his desk, at 12:02 on December 25th.
~*~*~*~
It's the season of eyes meeting over the noise
And holding fast with sharp realization
Roger is probably the only guy in New York, possibly the world, to fall in love with two people at the exact same moment in time.
It’s when Mimi finally drags him out of the apartment, and they’re standing at the corner of Avenue A, making dinner plans. Mimi’s wearing this cute little matching pink dress and coat that would look hideous on anyone but her, and he’s just chased off her dealer. None of this should be romantic. But it is, and she just shines when he looks at her.
Oh, it’s official. He’s gone for her. And then he hears a familiar voice - Mark.
Mark, who knows what it took for him to push the dealer away, because he’s the one who sat through a half a year of Roger’s detoxing. Who shoved and hit Roger right back when he cursed Mark out for finding every single stash he’d hidden, and who let Roger sleep in his bed when Roger’s own smelled too much like April.
He looks so fucking happy, Roger thinks, and he can’t help but wonder why Mark’s beaming like that under his glasses and striped scarf they stole from Collins last year. And then Mark flashes him a signature conspiratorial grin and smirks.
“She got you out.”
Yeah, Mimi got him out. Mark makes him want to stay there.
~*~*~*~
It’s the season of cold making warmth a divine intervention
And you are safe here, you know
Christmas isn’t a family holiday, as far as Christian’s concerned.
All it was ever good for when he was a kid was empty promises about toys he’d never get. Christmas was the remote-control truck that he wanted for years - the first thing he bought himself with the money Mr. Troy gave him for keeping his mouth shut. Christmas was lies from Mr. Troy about not fucking him if he was a good boy.
Christian got screwed whether he was good or bad, but it was only when Mr. Troy said he was “a good boy” that it hurt most - when he’d get the belt or the punches on top of the fucking.
So he gave up on being the good boy - that was Sean’s job, with his perfect MCATs and perfect girlfriend and later, his perfect family. Sean invited him home every year for Christmas, and every year Christian made his excuses and blew off to Brazil or Cancun or some other tropical place for anonymous sex with anonymous people.
Men. Women. Didn’t matter, as long as Christian got what he wanted.
And then came the Carver - fucking psychopath just had to fulfill Christian’s Christmas-fucking quota. Sean found him in the shower, scrubbing the blood off - fuck the police, there was no fucking way he was taking a rape kit like some drunk sorority girl - and, after checking him out and calling the police, drove him home.
Sean’s place was always home, no matter how far Christian tried to run.
You can’t outrun family.
~*~*~*~
It's the season of scars and of wounds in the heart
Of feeling the full weight of our burdens
Sam is Josh’s best friend, right? Knows him better than anyone - the way his nose crinkles when he’s about to tell you something you don’t want to hear, the rising pitch in his voice when he’s angry, the slump of his spine when he’s let someone down.
Sam doesn’t see this coming.
Josh has made a full recovery, the doctors say. Full use of all his limbs and processes. Just a long scar over his heart that he’ll carry for the rest of his life. Even the First Lady assures them (assures him) that Josh is doing fine.
Except Josh gets this faraway look on his face whenever Sam turns on the radio. He holds things too tightly, like they’ll be snatched from his hands. Holds Sam too tightly as well, leaving behind fingernail impressions in Sam’s back and hips, and so many red bruises on his wrists that Sam’s thankful he wears suits all the time and a really big watch.
And then it’s Christmas Eve, and Josh has broken the glass and lied about it. Screamed at the President in the Oval Office to listen to him. Asked Toby why Yo-Yo Ma was still playing through the sirens.
Josh broke, and Sam didn’t even see the cracks.
~*~*~*~
It's the season of bowing our heads in the wind
And knowing we are not alone in fear, nor alone in the dark
Another Christmas, another trip to Iraq.
While yeah, he loves meeting the troops - the twenty-two hour flights into the middle of nowhere for security reasons are murder. Not to mention the claustrophobia of the narrow planes and helicopters, and the tiny barracks once they get there. It’s fucking torture.
It doesn’t help that he is, and always has been, afraid of heights.
Shawn makes it bearable, though. Forty-three years old, and he still hasn’t lost that Air Force brat love of planes. Shawn will take the window seat next to Hunter and position himself so Hunt doesn’t see how fucking high they really are. He’ll round up Cena and Benjamin and challenge them on Hunt’s behalf to a Halo tournament, encouraging Hunt‘s merciless taunting when he and Shawn win every round.
He’ll sneak certain Guns & Roses songs onto Hunter’s iPod and gleefully sing along to even the filthiest of lyrics if it means Hunter will forget about their cruising altitude and concentrate his mocking on Shawn’s apparent lapse from Christianity.
Hunt tells Steph about all these signature Shawn antics.
He never tells her how Shawn positioned the seat-backs, blankets and pillows so that no one can see them during the sleep cycle. How Shawn slid to his knees, unfastened Hunter’s restraints and jeans, and gave him the hottest, filthiest, most spine-melting blowjob he’d ever received in his life. He’d stuffed the sleeve of his jacket into his mouth to muffle the sounds, but God, he’d wanted Shawn to hear him.
And he definitely doesn’t tell her about dragging Shawn behind the nearest building as soon as they land and returning the favor.
~*~*~*~
And don’t forget, don’t forget I love, I love, I love you . . .
Feedback is, as always, hugged and loved and squeezed and called George.
Title: The Atheist's Christmas Carol
Author: Drea (d_generate_girl)
Rating: PG-13, for adult content and language.
Disclaimer: I own none of these properties, people, characters, or stories that I'm twisting so nefariously to my own purposes. I also don't own the song "An Atheist's Christmas Carol", by Vienna Teng. If I did, I'd be a rich, rich girl and wouldn't need to wait tables to pay off my college tuition, now would I? And really, suing is so not Christmasy.
Spoilers: Consider yourself spoiled for all aired canon, but specifically “Crossroads II” for BSG, “Merry Little Christmas” for House, “Christmas Bells” from the original musical of RENT, “Joan Rivers” for nip/tuck, “Noel” for TWW, and the Tribute to the Troops for WWE.
Summary: Six friendships. Six Christmases. Six ways to bridge the gap.
~*~*~*~
It’s the season of grace coming out of the void
Where man is saved by a voice in the distance
It would have been snowing on Caprica right about now, he remembers, as he walks the corridors of Galactica amid the blaring red lights of Condition One.
“You should’ve left me on Caprica. I’d have died along with everyone else and been happier for it.”
He meant it then. He means it more, now. Then, it was Bill lying with his chest cracked open, leaving him to deal with Bill’s rebellious son and his confederate, the schoolteacher masquerading as a politician. Then, it was a simple wish for the world to be taken off his shoulders and put back onto Bill’s, where it belonged.
Now, the world itself is different.
He not only sees things differently, he feels things differently. Each press of Bill’s fingers to his skin causes him to marvel that the sensation isn’t real. Each touch of Bill’s lips to his own triggers a shudder - is this it? Is this the kiss during which Bill figures out Saul isn’t human? Feels the machine under the man and turns him over to Laura Roslin and her pet airlock?
Is this the last time they’ve got, before the sympathetic glitch in his programming switches off and he carries out the mission that Sharon Valerii could not?
It goes around and around in his head, like that damned music. Bill’sgonnafindout. Bill’sgonnafindout.
“It’s good to have you back, Saul.”
And then it stops.
~*~*~*~
It’s the season of possible miracle cures
Where hope is currency and death is not the last unknown
Jimmy hasn’t bought him a Christmas present for ages. It’s not something they do.
Not since the infarction.
The year before it happened, he and Stacy had gone out for dinner with Wilson and Bonnie, and they’d exchanged gifts. Wilson had turned five separate shades of red when he unwrapped the pair of boxers Greg had gotten him - bright blue with little gold menorahs and Stars of David on them - and Stacy inhaled half her wine in response. Wilson had retaliated with a copy of “Butch Lesbian and the Lapdance Kid” and it was Bonnie’s turn to drink away the mortification.
But after the infarction - after Stacy had left and Mindy the investment banker had replaced Bonnie - it didn’t feel right.
Not when he was dragging twenty pounds of dead muscle and tissue around, taking a half-hour just to get to the fucking can. Not when he’d try and lock himself in the bathroom with his Vicodin and a bottle of scotch, and Wilson would just pick the lock and drag his sorry ass back to bed.
You don’t say “thank you” to that with just a pair of boxers or lesbian porn. Well, you could, but it would have to be really good porn.
So they stopped doing the gift thing. After last year, with Tritter and actually overdosing, Greg figured Jimmy would want to bypass Christmas as quickly as possible.
And nothing shocks him more than the package Jimmy tosses on his desk, at 12:02 on December 25th.
~*~*~*~
It's the season of eyes meeting over the noise
And holding fast with sharp realization
Roger is probably the only guy in New York, possibly the world, to fall in love with two people at the exact same moment in time.
It’s when Mimi finally drags him out of the apartment, and they’re standing at the corner of Avenue A, making dinner plans. Mimi’s wearing this cute little matching pink dress and coat that would look hideous on anyone but her, and he’s just chased off her dealer. None of this should be romantic. But it is, and she just shines when he looks at her.
Oh, it’s official. He’s gone for her. And then he hears a familiar voice - Mark.
Mark, who knows what it took for him to push the dealer away, because he’s the one who sat through a half a year of Roger’s detoxing. Who shoved and hit Roger right back when he cursed Mark out for finding every single stash he’d hidden, and who let Roger sleep in his bed when Roger’s own smelled too much like April.
He looks so fucking happy, Roger thinks, and he can’t help but wonder why Mark’s beaming like that under his glasses and striped scarf they stole from Collins last year. And then Mark flashes him a signature conspiratorial grin and smirks.
“She got you out.”
Yeah, Mimi got him out. Mark makes him want to stay there.
~*~*~*~
It’s the season of cold making warmth a divine intervention
And you are safe here, you know
Christmas isn’t a family holiday, as far as Christian’s concerned.
All it was ever good for when he was a kid was empty promises about toys he’d never get. Christmas was the remote-control truck that he wanted for years - the first thing he bought himself with the money Mr. Troy gave him for keeping his mouth shut. Christmas was lies from Mr. Troy about not fucking him if he was a good boy.
Christian got screwed whether he was good or bad, but it was only when Mr. Troy said he was “a good boy” that it hurt most - when he’d get the belt or the punches on top of the fucking.
So he gave up on being the good boy - that was Sean’s job, with his perfect MCATs and perfect girlfriend and later, his perfect family. Sean invited him home every year for Christmas, and every year Christian made his excuses and blew off to Brazil or Cancun or some other tropical place for anonymous sex with anonymous people.
Men. Women. Didn’t matter, as long as Christian got what he wanted.
And then came the Carver - fucking psychopath just had to fulfill Christian’s Christmas-fucking quota. Sean found him in the shower, scrubbing the blood off - fuck the police, there was no fucking way he was taking a rape kit like some drunk sorority girl - and, after checking him out and calling the police, drove him home.
Sean’s place was always home, no matter how far Christian tried to run.
You can’t outrun family.
~*~*~*~
It's the season of scars and of wounds in the heart
Of feeling the full weight of our burdens
Sam is Josh’s best friend, right? Knows him better than anyone - the way his nose crinkles when he’s about to tell you something you don’t want to hear, the rising pitch in his voice when he’s angry, the slump of his spine when he’s let someone down.
Sam doesn’t see this coming.
Josh has made a full recovery, the doctors say. Full use of all his limbs and processes. Just a long scar over his heart that he’ll carry for the rest of his life. Even the First Lady assures them (assures him) that Josh is doing fine.
Except Josh gets this faraway look on his face whenever Sam turns on the radio. He holds things too tightly, like they’ll be snatched from his hands. Holds Sam too tightly as well, leaving behind fingernail impressions in Sam’s back and hips, and so many red bruises on his wrists that Sam’s thankful he wears suits all the time and a really big watch.
And then it’s Christmas Eve, and Josh has broken the glass and lied about it. Screamed at the President in the Oval Office to listen to him. Asked Toby why Yo-Yo Ma was still playing through the sirens.
Josh broke, and Sam didn’t even see the cracks.
~*~*~*~
It's the season of bowing our heads in the wind
And knowing we are not alone in fear, nor alone in the dark
Another Christmas, another trip to Iraq.
While yeah, he loves meeting the troops - the twenty-two hour flights into the middle of nowhere for security reasons are murder. Not to mention the claustrophobia of the narrow planes and helicopters, and the tiny barracks once they get there. It’s fucking torture.
It doesn’t help that he is, and always has been, afraid of heights.
Shawn makes it bearable, though. Forty-three years old, and he still hasn’t lost that Air Force brat love of planes. Shawn will take the window seat next to Hunter and position himself so Hunt doesn’t see how fucking high they really are. He’ll round up Cena and Benjamin and challenge them on Hunt’s behalf to a Halo tournament, encouraging Hunt‘s merciless taunting when he and Shawn win every round.
He’ll sneak certain Guns & Roses songs onto Hunter’s iPod and gleefully sing along to even the filthiest of lyrics if it means Hunter will forget about their cruising altitude and concentrate his mocking on Shawn’s apparent lapse from Christianity.
Hunt tells Steph about all these signature Shawn antics.
He never tells her how Shawn positioned the seat-backs, blankets and pillows so that no one can see them during the sleep cycle. How Shawn slid to his knees, unfastened Hunter’s restraints and jeans, and gave him the hottest, filthiest, most spine-melting blowjob he’d ever received in his life. He’d stuffed the sleeve of his jacket into his mouth to muffle the sounds, but God, he’d wanted Shawn to hear him.
And he definitely doesn’t tell her about dragging Shawn behind the nearest building as soon as they land and returning the favor.
~*~*~*~
And don’t forget, don’t forget I love, I love, I love you . . .
Feedback is, as always, hugged and loved and squeezed and called George.