Fic: Christmas Eve & Other Stories (Watchmen, Dan/Rorschach)
Author: Emmie (justapieceofme)
Title: Christmas Eve & Other Stories
Fandom: Watchmen
Pairing(s): Dan/Rorschach, but only if you tilt your head and squint. Mentions of Dan/Laurie.
Rating: PG
Continuity: Very post-GN
Author's note: For bane_6 and wm_secretsanta. I hope you like it! *Bites nails* Came out way less slashy than intended, sorry. Based on the Trans-Siberian Orchestra album of the same name, which can be heard here, minus the inexplicably-missing third track, which is here.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue, plzthx.
Summary: It's Christmas eve, and Sam Hollis encounters an interesting stranger...
In an old city bar that is never too far
From the places that gather the dreams that have been
In the safety of night, with its old neon light
It beckons to strangers, and they always come in
And the snow it was falling, the neon was calling
The music was low, and the night: Christmas Eve
And here was the danger: That even with strangers
Inside of this night, it was easier to believe
In the moments of our lives, both the joyous and the tragic
If the truth is to be told, we are all pursuing magic
And the magic that we seek, as we’re sure you have discovered
Can be found in certain places far more easily than others
And of all the nights throughout the year that come and gently leave
None hold the dream of magic like this evening, Christmas Eve
And so it’s on this night, with its promise deep within
As the snow now starts to fall
Our story does begin
Sam Hollis flicks the snow out of his eyes with a resigned, half-hearted sort of gesture before shoving his hands back into his pockets, trudging on through the cold, his gaze fixed on the slush-filled sidewalk beneath his feet, his face bearing its usual expression: not unhappy, not precisely, just…tired.
The night is dark, though multicolored lights twinkle at the edges of his vision. Somehow they serve only to deepen the darkness, in the same way the festive decorations only add to his sense of numb melancholy. When the lights had begun appearing early that month, he had tried to find some cheer in them, as he does every year, but now only feels as though he is walking through a dark tunnel, the brightness just off to the side, just out of reach. It seems to mirror the celebration, the happiness all around him which he cannot seem to touch.
It’s Christmas Eve, a fact which means little to Sam, which he probably would not even have realized were it not for the calendar on which he dutifully marks off each day, as if he’s actually counting down to something, as if he has anything to look forward to. He has never gotten around to decorating his own small apartment (there had been the slightest flicker of intention to do so, but little motivation to follow through on it), and tonight the darkness, the emptiness almost like a physical presence had been too much, so he had gone out on one of the aimless walks that have become fairly common for him.
A particularly bright glow catches his attention, and he glances up. A faint smile crosses his face as he realizes it’s a neon sign, its crackling ’open’ message hanging in the dirty, iced-over window of a small and familiar bar. It’s a place he has not entered in decades, but that only seems to fall perfectly into the melancholy nostalgia that is doing its best to consume him.
Snow falls from his coat as he enters, dripping onto the floor, but no one here seems about to complain. As a matter of fact, no one so much as looks up, save the bartender, who nods and pours him a shot of whiskey as he takes a seat. The first drink disappears quickly. The second lasts awhile longer as he takes in his surroundings. It’s dark, and fairly deserted, only one other patron at the bar and a couple more sitting at the scattered tables. All of them are older, and none seem particularly inclined to pay much attention to the stranger in their midst, which suits Sam fine. The only concession to the holiday spirit here is the jukebox softly droning on in the corner, the occasional Christmas carol interspersed with the classic rock songs.
Sam finishes his drink, orders another. He can feel the faint, numbing buzz of the alcohol taking effect even as feeling returns to his slightly frozen body. He has never been much of a drinker, still isn’t, but at the moment it is a pleasant buffer between him and the world, between him and reality. He stares down into the liquid, imagining he can see in its surface reflections of another life. In the semidarkness the whiskey reminds him of the color of Sandra’s -- of Laurie’s hair. She’s been gone for a number of years now, and it’s not as if he has anyone to talk to about her anymore, so he might as well use her real name inside his own head.
There’s a shuffling sound as someone settles onto the stool beside him. Sam’s brow furrows in a small frown. The bar is nearly empty; can’t the newcomer sit somewhere else, leave him to his drink and his thoughts? He can’t help but imagine the whiskey surrounding him like a moat, insulating him so that he finds he can ignore the new presence. Or so he thinks.
“Pardon me,” says the man beside him in a roughened voice that makes Sam suspect he is no stranger to the bar, “would you happen to know the time?”
“Quarter past eleven,” he replies with a cursory glance at his watch, wondering when it had gotten so late. His eyes flit over to the man for a moment, taking in little more than a figure bundled in an old and ratty coat, the face obscured by shadow. The bartender has yet to come take the man’s order, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Pulling a flask from his coat, he takes a long drink from it, then silently offers it to Sam, who shrugs and accepts. The liquid tastes unfamiliar but not unpleasant, trickling down his throat in burning trails that settle in his stomach, warming him from the inside out.
“What’s your name?” the man asks.
“Daniel,” he replies, then blinks in surprise at the name he has been careful not to utter in years. Surely he’s not that drunk yet.
“Daniel,” the man repeats, seeming utterly unfazed by the name, and he relaxes. It’s a slip, but a small one, and he sincerely doubts that this bum is anyone he has to worry about discovering his true identity. “Mind if I join you?”
He shrugs, but finds that he actually doesn’t mind, despite his fervent desire of only a few minutes before to be left to himself.
“You know,” the man says, seeming unperturbed by his silent indifference, “I hear this used to be a big underworld bar, years ago.”
“Oh yeah?” Dan says carefully. “Uh, what happened?” He gestures toward the room, as if to indicate that it’s clearly not so now.
“Owner died in the…invasion,” he says, his tone clearly that of a skeptic. Dan can’t be sure, but he guesses the man is old enough to have lived through the attack. Still, there are those who had seen it firsthand and still had their doubts. “His son took over.“ A jerk of the head toward the bartender. “Takes after his father in a lot of respects -- appearance, tendency to remove himself from behind bar only when strictly necessary. Affection reserved solely for this bar -- and perhaps for its cash register.” Dan very nearly chuckles at that. It’s true -- Harry the second, now in his later years, is very nearly indistinguishable from his predecessor.
“I guess there’s, uh, a lot of history here,” Dan says, feeling he ought to reply.
A nod, and a soft, amused sound. “Lot of history. Lot of memories here. Especially tonight.” Though he cannot see his companion’s eyes, he can somehow feel his piercing gaze upon him, and has the sudden wild idea that this man somehow knows everything he was just thinking about. Before he can process the thought, though, the man is speaking again. “Daniel. Mind if I tell you a story?”
“Uh…sure,” he says, shaking his head slightly at the rapid topic change, feeling as though he has missed something important in the transition. “What kind of story?”
“A Christmas story,” the man says, a smile in his rasping voice as he tops off Dan’s drink from his little flask. He pauses, as if considering. “Lot of history in this place,” he repeats. “Lot of history in this night, too.”
“Mm,” Dan says, sipping from his glass, not entirely sure what he’s agreeing with, marveling again at the way the liquid warmth pools deep inside him.
The stranger -- though, Dan is vaguely surprised to realize, he does not seem like a stranger; there is something oddly familiar about him -- pauses again, apparently thinking how to begin. “Christmas eve, a number of years ago. A young angel set off on a mission.”
Dan gives a half-smile. Oh. It’s that sort of story. Though he was beginning to…if not enjoy, then at least acclimate to the company, he’s not in the mood to be proselytized to. “I’m uh, not particularly religious, man.”
He’s surprised when the man snorts softly. “Nor am I. Has nothing to do with religion. Angels, spirits, ghosts. Simply different words for the same thing. Exist whether you believe in them or not.” And he continues on, unbothered by this interruption. “This angel -- this spirit, if you prefer,” and again his voice hold a hint of laughter, letting Dan know he’s being gently mocked, “was on a mission to find the single thing that represents everything good mankind has done in the name of this day, this night.”
Dan’s about to give some sarcastic answer, but finds himself actually contemplating the man’s words, wondering what such a thing could be, and when he says, “Sounds like a hard mission,” it is with a sincerity that surprises even him.
His companion makes a sound of agreement. “Harder still for the human mind to grasp. But as the spirit roamed the earth that night, he did wonder what this thing could be.”
Dan finds himself captivated as the tale unfolded, his new friend describing the spirit’s wanderings as he searched for his answer. Though he had initially scoffed at such a story, and especially at the idea that it could be true, he can now clearly see it in his mind (where the spirit did indeed resemble classical depictions of angels, even as he walked among people, supposedly disguised as a human), finds himself not only enjoying it, but somehow believing it could, just possibly, really have happened. He shakes his head slightly. The man is a good storyteller, and he’s clearly a little drunk, getting so swept up in his words.
“The night was nearly over,” the man says, and Dan feels a slight sadness at the thought that this means the story is nearly so as well, “and the spirit had seen much. He examined the things that he had found. The sound of voices raised in joy. The innocence in the heart of a child. He had even seen wars pause for this one night. And he wondered if any of these were his answer.”
“Something else occurred to him, as he felt the brush of a wish -- a prayer, if it’s not too religious for you,” and Dan thinks he actually sees the slight trace of a smile on the shadowed face. “It was the prayer of a man whose child was far away this night. Curious, the spirit followed it to the child. He found her alone, in a city far away. She was looking for a star to wish on, but stars were in short supply that night. So, spotting the neon sign on an old bar, she wished on that to be home.”
Dan finds that he can clearly see this, too, in his mind’s eye. Then a shock runs through him as he realizes that isn’t the only place he’s seeing it. Glancing out the window, he can see that there is indeed a young girl, perhaps sixteen, standing across the street, staring at the bar.
“What…?”
His companion only fixes him with a steady gaze, and before Dan quite knows what he’s doing, he’s signaled to the bartender. “Hey, Harry, c’mere.”
The man meanders over. “Another?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at Dan’s glass.
“No. Look.” He gestures to the window. “See that girl?”
Harry glances in that direction, then looks back at him. “Yeah. What about her?”
“She’s…lost,” Dan says, suddenly aware that the previously self-occupied patrons of the bar are beginning to listen in on this conversation, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous, but he continues anyway. “She’s trying to get home, but she can’t.”
Harry smirks at him. “You a friend of hers? Come in here to bug me?”
“No. I’ve never seen her before myself, but…”
“Then how do you know she’s ‘lost,’” he asks, loading the word with contempt. Then, for good measure, adds, “Not that I care.”
Dan only gives him a slight smile. “Come on man. It’s Christmas eve. If you could be home now, wouldn’t you be?”
Harry regards him for a moment, mutters something and turns away. Dan feels as if he should say something else, but the next thing he knows, the bartender is stuffing something in his pocket and stalking out from behind the bar. This is something most of the patrons have never seen, and they glance up in slight interest as he pushes the door roughly open and striding out into the snow, looking rather grouchy about this turn of events. No one in the bar speaks as he crosses the street, approaching the girl.
The two talk for some time, then Harry picks up the pay phone and dials a number. It’s rare to find a pay phone in the city anymore, much less one that works, and as a matter of fact, Dan is pretty sure that one didn’t a few minutes ago. He’s utterly unsurprised, though, to watch Harry speak to someone on the phone for a moment before hanging up and turning back to the girl. They continue to talk, now with the air of two people passing the time. And soon enough, a cab slides to a stop at the curb, obscuring them from view, but not before Dan can see the old bartender push something that looks suspiciously like a wad of cash into the girl’s hand. The cab drives away, and Harry makes his way back to the bar, seeming surprised to find everyone staring at him as he enters.
“What the hell, Harry?” one man speaks up. “Going to let this guy scam you like that?”
The look on his face, clearly visible in the light of an old neon star, is surprisingly soft, seeming out of place there. “No,” he says, making his way back behind his bar, “I don’t think it’s a scam.” And then, even more amazing, he pours a round for everyone, declaring it on the house.
“What was that?” Dan asks in an awed near-whisper, but his friend only continues on with the tale.
“The angel” (and though it may be a slip, suddenly Dan finds he does not object to the word in the slightest) “saw the girl, and he knew it was in his power to grant her wish, but he watched instead as two mortal men stepped in to help a stranger. And now he had two more things for his collection: the kindness one man does for another, unasked. The hope in the hearts of two people where before there had been none. He knew he had his answer, had accomplished his mission.”
They sit in silence for several moments, Dan’s head spinning. He wants to say something, can’t work out what. Then the man says, “Christmas morning now.” Dan checks his watch and it is indeed just past midnight. “You should go home.”
“What about you?” he hears himself ask.
A gloved hand grips his shoulder. “Have been there all along, Daniel. Merry Christmas.” And he turns to go, leaving Dan staring after him, mouth hanging slightly open. The neon illuminates what might be red hair, turning it an odd pinkish-orange, as he exits. It’s only then that Dan realizes the man never gave his name. Suddenly it seems vitally important and he slides off the barstool, running out into the snow in a moment that seems strangely, achingly familiar. But the man is already gone. Strangely, though the snow is drifting lightly now, there is not a single track.
Sam Hollis walks home slowly, turning the night’s events over and over in his head, trying to understand, but that night, for the first time in years, Daniel Dreiberg dreams a Christmas dream.
It was the glow of a light
It was the heart of a song
It was the tear of a child
Where they never belonged
It was the wish of a soul
On an old neon light
And the lord smiled at him
On that cold winter night
Merry Christmas
Title: Christmas Eve & Other Stories
Fandom: Watchmen
Pairing(s): Dan/Rorschach, but only if you tilt your head and squint. Mentions of Dan/Laurie.
Rating: PG
Continuity: Very post-GN
Author's note: For bane_6 and wm_secretsanta. I hope you like it! *Bites nails* Came out way less slashy than intended, sorry. Based on the Trans-Siberian Orchestra album of the same name, which can be heard here, minus the inexplicably-missing third track, which is here.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue, plzthx.
Summary: It's Christmas eve, and Sam Hollis encounters an interesting stranger...
In an old city bar that is never too far
From the places that gather the dreams that have been
In the safety of night, with its old neon light
It beckons to strangers, and they always come in
And the snow it was falling, the neon was calling
The music was low, and the night: Christmas Eve
And here was the danger: That even with strangers
Inside of this night, it was easier to believe
In the moments of our lives, both the joyous and the tragic
If the truth is to be told, we are all pursuing magic
And the magic that we seek, as we’re sure you have discovered
Can be found in certain places far more easily than others
And of all the nights throughout the year that come and gently leave
None hold the dream of magic like this evening, Christmas Eve
And so it’s on this night, with its promise deep within
As the snow now starts to fall
Our story does begin
Sam Hollis flicks the snow out of his eyes with a resigned, half-hearted sort of gesture before shoving his hands back into his pockets, trudging on through the cold, his gaze fixed on the slush-filled sidewalk beneath his feet, his face bearing its usual expression: not unhappy, not precisely, just…tired.
The night is dark, though multicolored lights twinkle at the edges of his vision. Somehow they serve only to deepen the darkness, in the same way the festive decorations only add to his sense of numb melancholy. When the lights had begun appearing early that month, he had tried to find some cheer in them, as he does every year, but now only feels as though he is walking through a dark tunnel, the brightness just off to the side, just out of reach. It seems to mirror the celebration, the happiness all around him which he cannot seem to touch.
It’s Christmas Eve, a fact which means little to Sam, which he probably would not even have realized were it not for the calendar on which he dutifully marks off each day, as if he’s actually counting down to something, as if he has anything to look forward to. He has never gotten around to decorating his own small apartment (there had been the slightest flicker of intention to do so, but little motivation to follow through on it), and tonight the darkness, the emptiness almost like a physical presence had been too much, so he had gone out on one of the aimless walks that have become fairly common for him.
A particularly bright glow catches his attention, and he glances up. A faint smile crosses his face as he realizes it’s a neon sign, its crackling ’open’ message hanging in the dirty, iced-over window of a small and familiar bar. It’s a place he has not entered in decades, but that only seems to fall perfectly into the melancholy nostalgia that is doing its best to consume him.
Snow falls from his coat as he enters, dripping onto the floor, but no one here seems about to complain. As a matter of fact, no one so much as looks up, save the bartender, who nods and pours him a shot of whiskey as he takes a seat. The first drink disappears quickly. The second lasts awhile longer as he takes in his surroundings. It’s dark, and fairly deserted, only one other patron at the bar and a couple more sitting at the scattered tables. All of them are older, and none seem particularly inclined to pay much attention to the stranger in their midst, which suits Sam fine. The only concession to the holiday spirit here is the jukebox softly droning on in the corner, the occasional Christmas carol interspersed with the classic rock songs.
Sam finishes his drink, orders another. He can feel the faint, numbing buzz of the alcohol taking effect even as feeling returns to his slightly frozen body. He has never been much of a drinker, still isn’t, but at the moment it is a pleasant buffer between him and the world, between him and reality. He stares down into the liquid, imagining he can see in its surface reflections of another life. In the semidarkness the whiskey reminds him of the color of Sandra’s -- of Laurie’s hair. She’s been gone for a number of years now, and it’s not as if he has anyone to talk to about her anymore, so he might as well use her real name inside his own head.
There’s a shuffling sound as someone settles onto the stool beside him. Sam’s brow furrows in a small frown. The bar is nearly empty; can’t the newcomer sit somewhere else, leave him to his drink and his thoughts? He can’t help but imagine the whiskey surrounding him like a moat, insulating him so that he finds he can ignore the new presence. Or so he thinks.
“Pardon me,” says the man beside him in a roughened voice that makes Sam suspect he is no stranger to the bar, “would you happen to know the time?”
“Quarter past eleven,” he replies with a cursory glance at his watch, wondering when it had gotten so late. His eyes flit over to the man for a moment, taking in little more than a figure bundled in an old and ratty coat, the face obscured by shadow. The bartender has yet to come take the man’s order, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Pulling a flask from his coat, he takes a long drink from it, then silently offers it to Sam, who shrugs and accepts. The liquid tastes unfamiliar but not unpleasant, trickling down his throat in burning trails that settle in his stomach, warming him from the inside out.
“What’s your name?” the man asks.
“Daniel,” he replies, then blinks in surprise at the name he has been careful not to utter in years. Surely he’s not that drunk yet.
“Daniel,” the man repeats, seeming utterly unfazed by the name, and he relaxes. It’s a slip, but a small one, and he sincerely doubts that this bum is anyone he has to worry about discovering his true identity. “Mind if I join you?”
He shrugs, but finds that he actually doesn’t mind, despite his fervent desire of only a few minutes before to be left to himself.
“You know,” the man says, seeming unperturbed by his silent indifference, “I hear this used to be a big underworld bar, years ago.”
“Oh yeah?” Dan says carefully. “Uh, what happened?” He gestures toward the room, as if to indicate that it’s clearly not so now.
“Owner died in the…invasion,” he says, his tone clearly that of a skeptic. Dan can’t be sure, but he guesses the man is old enough to have lived through the attack. Still, there are those who had seen it firsthand and still had their doubts. “His son took over.“ A jerk of the head toward the bartender. “Takes after his father in a lot of respects -- appearance, tendency to remove himself from behind bar only when strictly necessary. Affection reserved solely for this bar -- and perhaps for its cash register.” Dan very nearly chuckles at that. It’s true -- Harry the second, now in his later years, is very nearly indistinguishable from his predecessor.
“I guess there’s, uh, a lot of history here,” Dan says, feeling he ought to reply.
A nod, and a soft, amused sound. “Lot of history. Lot of memories here. Especially tonight.” Though he cannot see his companion’s eyes, he can somehow feel his piercing gaze upon him, and has the sudden wild idea that this man somehow knows everything he was just thinking about. Before he can process the thought, though, the man is speaking again. “Daniel. Mind if I tell you a story?”
“Uh…sure,” he says, shaking his head slightly at the rapid topic change, feeling as though he has missed something important in the transition. “What kind of story?”
“A Christmas story,” the man says, a smile in his rasping voice as he tops off Dan’s drink from his little flask. He pauses, as if considering. “Lot of history in this place,” he repeats. “Lot of history in this night, too.”
“Mm,” Dan says, sipping from his glass, not entirely sure what he’s agreeing with, marveling again at the way the liquid warmth pools deep inside him.
The stranger -- though, Dan is vaguely surprised to realize, he does not seem like a stranger; there is something oddly familiar about him -- pauses again, apparently thinking how to begin. “Christmas eve, a number of years ago. A young angel set off on a mission.”
Dan gives a half-smile. Oh. It’s that sort of story. Though he was beginning to…if not enjoy, then at least acclimate to the company, he’s not in the mood to be proselytized to. “I’m uh, not particularly religious, man.”
He’s surprised when the man snorts softly. “Nor am I. Has nothing to do with religion. Angels, spirits, ghosts. Simply different words for the same thing. Exist whether you believe in them or not.” And he continues on, unbothered by this interruption. “This angel -- this spirit, if you prefer,” and again his voice hold a hint of laughter, letting Dan know he’s being gently mocked, “was on a mission to find the single thing that represents everything good mankind has done in the name of this day, this night.”
Dan’s about to give some sarcastic answer, but finds himself actually contemplating the man’s words, wondering what such a thing could be, and when he says, “Sounds like a hard mission,” it is with a sincerity that surprises even him.
His companion makes a sound of agreement. “Harder still for the human mind to grasp. But as the spirit roamed the earth that night, he did wonder what this thing could be.”
Dan finds himself captivated as the tale unfolded, his new friend describing the spirit’s wanderings as he searched for his answer. Though he had initially scoffed at such a story, and especially at the idea that it could be true, he can now clearly see it in his mind (where the spirit did indeed resemble classical depictions of angels, even as he walked among people, supposedly disguised as a human), finds himself not only enjoying it, but somehow believing it could, just possibly, really have happened. He shakes his head slightly. The man is a good storyteller, and he’s clearly a little drunk, getting so swept up in his words.
“The night was nearly over,” the man says, and Dan feels a slight sadness at the thought that this means the story is nearly so as well, “and the spirit had seen much. He examined the things that he had found. The sound of voices raised in joy. The innocence in the heart of a child. He had even seen wars pause for this one night. And he wondered if any of these were his answer.”
“Something else occurred to him, as he felt the brush of a wish -- a prayer, if it’s not too religious for you,” and Dan thinks he actually sees the slight trace of a smile on the shadowed face. “It was the prayer of a man whose child was far away this night. Curious, the spirit followed it to the child. He found her alone, in a city far away. She was looking for a star to wish on, but stars were in short supply that night. So, spotting the neon sign on an old bar, she wished on that to be home.”
Dan finds that he can clearly see this, too, in his mind’s eye. Then a shock runs through him as he realizes that isn’t the only place he’s seeing it. Glancing out the window, he can see that there is indeed a young girl, perhaps sixteen, standing across the street, staring at the bar.
“What…?”
His companion only fixes him with a steady gaze, and before Dan quite knows what he’s doing, he’s signaled to the bartender. “Hey, Harry, c’mere.”
The man meanders over. “Another?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at Dan’s glass.
“No. Look.” He gestures to the window. “See that girl?”
Harry glances in that direction, then looks back at him. “Yeah. What about her?”
“She’s…lost,” Dan says, suddenly aware that the previously self-occupied patrons of the bar are beginning to listen in on this conversation, suddenly feeling a little ridiculous, but he continues anyway. “She’s trying to get home, but she can’t.”
Harry smirks at him. “You a friend of hers? Come in here to bug me?”
“No. I’ve never seen her before myself, but…”
“Then how do you know she’s ‘lost,’” he asks, loading the word with contempt. Then, for good measure, adds, “Not that I care.”
Dan only gives him a slight smile. “Come on man. It’s Christmas eve. If you could be home now, wouldn’t you be?”
Harry regards him for a moment, mutters something and turns away. Dan feels as if he should say something else, but the next thing he knows, the bartender is stuffing something in his pocket and stalking out from behind the bar. This is something most of the patrons have never seen, and they glance up in slight interest as he pushes the door roughly open and striding out into the snow, looking rather grouchy about this turn of events. No one in the bar speaks as he crosses the street, approaching the girl.
The two talk for some time, then Harry picks up the pay phone and dials a number. It’s rare to find a pay phone in the city anymore, much less one that works, and as a matter of fact, Dan is pretty sure that one didn’t a few minutes ago. He’s utterly unsurprised, though, to watch Harry speak to someone on the phone for a moment before hanging up and turning back to the girl. They continue to talk, now with the air of two people passing the time. And soon enough, a cab slides to a stop at the curb, obscuring them from view, but not before Dan can see the old bartender push something that looks suspiciously like a wad of cash into the girl’s hand. The cab drives away, and Harry makes his way back to the bar, seeming surprised to find everyone staring at him as he enters.
“What the hell, Harry?” one man speaks up. “Going to let this guy scam you like that?”
The look on his face, clearly visible in the light of an old neon star, is surprisingly soft, seeming out of place there. “No,” he says, making his way back behind his bar, “I don’t think it’s a scam.” And then, even more amazing, he pours a round for everyone, declaring it on the house.
“What was that?” Dan asks in an awed near-whisper, but his friend only continues on with the tale.
“The angel” (and though it may be a slip, suddenly Dan finds he does not object to the word in the slightest) “saw the girl, and he knew it was in his power to grant her wish, but he watched instead as two mortal men stepped in to help a stranger. And now he had two more things for his collection: the kindness one man does for another, unasked. The hope in the hearts of two people where before there had been none. He knew he had his answer, had accomplished his mission.”
They sit in silence for several moments, Dan’s head spinning. He wants to say something, can’t work out what. Then the man says, “Christmas morning now.” Dan checks his watch and it is indeed just past midnight. “You should go home.”
“What about you?” he hears himself ask.
A gloved hand grips his shoulder. “Have been there all along, Daniel. Merry Christmas.” And he turns to go, leaving Dan staring after him, mouth hanging slightly open. The neon illuminates what might be red hair, turning it an odd pinkish-orange, as he exits. It’s only then that Dan realizes the man never gave his name. Suddenly it seems vitally important and he slides off the barstool, running out into the snow in a moment that seems strangely, achingly familiar. But the man is already gone. Strangely, though the snow is drifting lightly now, there is not a single track.
Sam Hollis walks home slowly, turning the night’s events over and over in his head, trying to understand, but that night, for the first time in years, Daniel Dreiberg dreams a Christmas dream.
It was the glow of a light
It was the heart of a song
It was the tear of a child
Where they never belonged
It was the wish of a soul
On an old neon light
And the lord smiled at him
On that cold winter night
Merry Christmas