Merry Christmas!
All publically recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners, no copywrite infringement intended. Original story property author.
This is sick.
His self loathing increased as the level in the whiskey bottle went down.
What are you doing, St. John?
A file spread its contents across his desk, spilling into his lap. Pictures. Blond, blue eyed, growing taller with each photo. Braver. More precious.
He tipped the glass, surprised as nothing burned his tongue. He watched his hand as it wavered to the bottle, but it, too, was empty.
As empty as this husk I walk around in every night. What's the point?
Her.
"No!" He lunged to his feet, slamming the folder closed with his palm, but her face fluttered around him, slipping from his lap, a cascade of obsession.
Coraline was less of a monster than this. Why can't I let her go?
Why would you?
Mick choked and whirled, his office spinning just a fraction more slowly to his muddled senses. Nothing. Just dim light from the lamp, a miasma of JD, and scattered pictures resettling on the floor.
Oh God, St. John, you're drunk. You're drunk and maudlin, and disgusting.
You're saving people.
He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, slowly, searching. Still nothing. All he could see was himself, as he walked into the room, pausing for minutes with his hand on the cabinet's handle, losing the battle with himself and pulling out the file. He shook off the vision, rubbing his forehead.
Where's this coming from?
A flicker of movement at his feet, and her smile flashed up at him from the circle of lamplight. Mick sank back down into his chair.
It's her. It's me. It's the goddamned whiskey, and the goddamned music, and all those happy fucking people down there.
He felt drained, too tired to think but his head just kept going.
It was that line of giggling kids, holding on to their mama's and papa's hands, waiting to sit in Santa's lap. That little blond girl who was scared, leaning against her mother. Her mother pulling her close, hands on her shoulders. The candles in the carolers hands behind them.
God. Coraline, I miss you.
His jaw clenched, as did other parts of him.
You loved me. You tried to give me every single thing I wanted. Or thought I did. All it ever got you was contempt, and then dead. You gave me everything you had, and I killed you.
And now, I sit here on Christmas eve and look at pictures of what I could have had, and could never have, and hear fucking voices telling my drunken ass that I'm doing some good.
He dropped his head against the back of the chair. Silence, except for the distant whine of a siren somewhere out in the city.
There wasn't anyone cheering him on. There was no little voice telling him that she needed an angel to watch over her at night, and keep the monsters away. She didn't even remember the monsters anymore; he'd spent enough nights watching her sleep to know that her dreams were untroubled by more than the occasional late homework assignment or a fleeting crush.
It was him that needed the angel. He needed something to cling to, something to make the nightmares go away. Something to chase the smoky brown eyes from his dreams, to make him turn away from the blood and the power, the seduction and the pain that always brought pleasure.
Someone that helped remind him how to be a man. Someone that reminded him that power was there to protect, that love was something that nourished rather than left you starved.
You saved me.
He startled upright. That wasn't a voice he'd ever heard before. He held his breath, listening.
When I was little.
Mick felt staked. "Beth?"
I always felt safe.
"Beth?"
It was you.
Mick closed his eyes slowly, a tightness in his chest he'd not noticed before easing. He loved Coraline. He'd obsessed over her. He'd died because of her.
Beth was no obsession. She was redemption. He'd chosen to live.
Because of her.