Characters: Mostly Peter, Angela, Hesam, some Emma, and, of course, Nathan (in flashbacks).
Set: Around Christmas after Nathan's death. I've left open the question whether it's 2007 or 2009. I know the show has retconned the timeline and this should officially be 2009, but I just can't see where to squeeze in the two extra years. The days of the week are as of 2007, but whatever canon you follow, there shouldn't be anything jarring. I realise this'll probably be AU after the show starts up again, as I doubt Peter will be left so much time to grieve, but I promise to finish this story even if it's rendered AU. ;) Edit: Yup, pretty much AU after the next episodes... but well, I did call the staged plane crash AND Peter talking sense into a would-be assassin across a loaded gun, even though the rest unfolded rather differently.
Sparked by: Thinking of "The Fifth Stage" as Christmas music was playing in a store. It should be prohibited to feel so much for fictional characters, but my heart nearly broke for Peter.
Disclaimer: The usual – I own nothing. Thanks for reading and reviewing! ^^
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Wake Me Up When December Ends
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December 23
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"They're exploiting you, Peter, you know that."
Peter closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and explained patiently into the phone, "They're not exploiting me, Mom. I'm at work every Sunday, and really, I'm fine with it. Two days before Christmas, there's no way I can ask Jackson to start juggling shifts around."
"That decency on your part doesn't stop Jackson from giving you an extra shift on Christmas Eve, though?" Angela went on pointedly.
"He didn't give it to me, he asked around who could take it. EMS is crazy at this time of year." He didn't tell her that he had hardly hesitated before agreeing to take the shift.
Once again, he didn't fool her. "And I bet you were hard to persuade."
Defensively, Peter replied, "Hesam's working on the 24th; I figured I wouldn't leave him hanging."
"Well, that's all right for him, because he's a Muslim, isn't he?"
"He's not, actually."
"You know what I mean."
"It doesn't matter, Mom. I'll be working tomorrow night and that's that. I'll be round later on Christmas Day, O. K.? You said Claire would be there. You're not alone then."
He had been prepared for more stinging remarks from his mother and was surprised when she asked, quietly, "Will you be okay, Peter?"
He was silent for a second, then he answered, with as much conviction as he could muster, "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine."
"Well—," she began, but did not seem to be able to find anything to finish her sentence on.
"I'm fine, Mom," he reassured her again. Another second's hesitation. "Talk to you later. You really needn't have called this early. Catch some more sleep, okay? Bye."
"Bye, Peter."
Peter put down the phone and looked at the clock. Half past six. Time to be off.
It had been snowing continually since the beginning of December, turning New York City into a storybook image of every child's Christmas dream. The TV programme had become unbearable, jingling all the way with badly animated red-nosed reindeers and miracles on 34th Street. And when Judy Garland proclaimed her annual "happy golden days of yore" through the loudspeakers of a grocery store, it was all Peter could do to not just dump butter, milk and frozen peas in the aisle and flee. He took to doing his grocery shopping in Arab stores after that. Much fewer Christmas songs.
He had known that Christmas was the worst time of year to cope with the loss of a loved one. It was something they even taught you at nursing school. He could remember sitting in an auditorium mainly filled with girls, dutifully scribbling down the words, Christmas worst time f. mourning; memories! into his notepad.
Now, he knew how true it was.
Nathan had died three weeks ago – despite his mother's protestations that he'd been dead for months, for Peter, it would always be that Friday after Thanksgiving – and the wounds had never been given any chance to heal. Nathan had just always been there, especially at times like Christmas, and his absence was something tangible, like a shadow that followed Peter around wherever he went. He never knew how he'd made it through that horrible affair of a state funeral, with all those laudations by people who had no idea who Nathan truly was, right down to the fake plane crash in which he had supposedly died. His mother had arranged all that. He hadn't wanted any part in it, and wished he could have left out the funeral entirely, but he couldn't have done that to her.
As he passed his letterbox in the hall on the way to the front door, it seemed to glare at him accusingly, asking him why he hadn't emptied it for several days.
He looked away, ignoring it. The front door was still locked; he often was the first to unlock it in the morning. It was still dark outside, but several inches of new snow had fallen during the night, promising a day that would certainly not become boring for a paramedic.
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(December 23, 1991)
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It was the most boring day Peter could remember. School was out for the holidays, which was a definite plus, but almost nothing else was.
He sat on the sofa in the living-room with a book, not to read, but rather to be demonstrative. If he'd truly wanted to read, he would have gone up to his room and shut the door. But he didn't want to read; he wanted to be noticed.
It was his twelfth birthday; and as usual, he wasn't allowed to have a birthday party in the house – "as it's too close to Christmas and there's no way I'll have to parties in this house in just two days." It had been the same since preschool.
His father had left for work hours before; his mother was in the kitchen, baking for some charity event that afternoon. And she had discovered the joys of the new CD player. Especially the "repeat all" function. Which would have been bad enough already if it hadn't been Frank Sinatra.
"I'll be home for Christmas,
You can plan on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents on the tree..."
"Mom, can't you turn that off?" he shouted with all the exasperation and musical taste of the twelve-year-old.
Angela appeared in the hall, wearing an apron and insulated gloves. From her expression, he knew that under normal circumstances she would have told him to go up and read in his room, but seeing him sitting on the sofa, she walked over to him with a sigh, took off the gloves, and sat down a few feet from him.
"I'm really sorry, dear. You can still help me with the baking, you know."
"Great," Peter murmured. "Other kids don't have to bake on their birthdays."
Her tone cooled. "You don't have to. It was just an offer. And don't pretend that you didn't get a cake today."
Peter's eyes were grudgingly drawn to the birthday table in the corner, laden with presents as well as a large chocolate birthday cake. He didn't answer.
"Look," Angela went on, mellowing once again. "I know you're disappointed. I'm sorry Nathan can't make it until Christmas Day. We'd all hoped he could be home sooner, but it's like it is. And if Joan hadn't fallen sick, I wouldn't have had to organize the charity dinner tonight. I'll make up for it, I promise." She turned as the kitchen timer went off, and got up from the sofa again. "Why don't you phone round, see if one of your friends wants to go to the cinema? 'Hook' is supposed to be really nice. Or that one with Anjelica Huston, I read about that in the paper –"
"Peter Pan is kids' stuff." Peter watched her go back to the kitchen. The truth was that he would have liked to see both "Hook" and "The Addams Family" very much, but the "Phoning round for a friend" bit was going to be the problem. Since he had started Middle School, his elementary school friends had disappeared, and he hadn't really made any new ones. For most of the kids, he was the "rich kid", who was invited to birthday parties only because they hoped for cool presents. And the few who didn't care, tragically, didn't meet his parents' expectations of friends for their son.
Peter turned back to his book. He considered actually going up to his room now, since his mother's words had made it abundantly clear that being demonstrative hadn't worked.
When he heard the front door being opened, he was vaguely surprised that his father was home from work that early.
Then he heard a very familiar, and very much unexpected, voice calling from the hall: "Hello! Anyone home?"
With a rather un-twelve-year-old squeal, Peter jumped from the sofa and dashed into the hall. Nathan stood in the door in his Naval uniform, his kit bag at his side, grinning as he braced himself for the impact of seventy pounds of little brother.
"Nathan! You said you wouldn't be here until the day after tomorrow!"
"I figured I'd surprise you, buddy." Nathan disengaged a beaming Peter and straightened as Angela appeared in the hall, still in her apron.
"You could have called," she said as she embraced her older son, sounding hardly surprised at all.
"Yeah, I could," Nathan replied, looking extremely pleased with himself. "But my request to rearrange my leave only came through last night."
"Rearranged, not extended?" Angela asked.
"No," Nathan replied, some regret in his voice. "Means I have to be back at the base on the 30th." The look he gave his mother was halfway between apologetic and challenging.
Peter didn't care. "I'm so glad you're here!" he said. "It's been absolutely horrible today! Let's do something together, okay?"
Angela, taking offence at "It's been absolutely horrible today," said disapprovingly, "Give him a break, Peter. He's just come home. There's some meat loaf left, Nathan."
"That's all right, Ma," Nathan said. "It's Pete's birthday. Hey buddy, I didn't stop anywhere really, so I haven't gotten you a present just yet – but let me change into something more casual, and then I can take you out to the cinema or something. Seen 'Hook' yet?"
"Not yet, no – that would be great!" Peter was jumping up and down.
"I thought Peter Pan was kids' stuff," Angela remarked with an arched eyebrow.
Peter didn't answer, but Nathan replied, "I hear it's got baseball."
"Baseball? In a Peter Pan movie?" Angela said, incredulous.
"Entertainment for the entire family," Nathan said, winking at Peter. "I'll be down in a minute. See if we can't improve on that absolutely horrible birthday."
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It was 6.45 when Peter arrived at Mercy Heights Hospital. Even the hospital was still quiet at this time of day. Peter passed the file room on his way to the garage; that was dark too. A part of him was grateful for it; another part was regretting that Emma wasn't at work yet.
He got the ambulance keys and radios from the supervisor's office and was nearly through his checkup of the truck when Hesam arrived. "This is going to be fun," the Iranian murmured, looking out through the open gates and stamping snow off his boots.
"Yeah," Peter said noncommittally, checking and ticking off two bottles of activated charcoal on his list, then putting away his ballpoint pen. "We're good to go."
"You okay?" Hesam inquired as he took the driver's seat, and Peter got into the passenger's seat.
"Yeah," Peter answered, about as noncommittally as before. Trust Hesam to realise if something was not okay. The good thing was that Hesam was also very adept at picking up silent cues, such as, I don't want to talk about it. Another thing that Hesam had quietly picked up was that all radio stations playing excessive Christmas music were to be avoided at all costs.
Another silent agreement was that any such pauses were to be ended by the one who had initiated them. "Let's see if the old lady starts up," Peter said as Hesam started the engine, which, after some rather noisy idling, did start up, and they rolled out. The driveway had been cleared of snow, but that wouldn't be the case for a larger number of the smaller alleys yet.
"What'ya reckon?" Hesam asked as he pulled up the ambulance on the curb. "First accident before 8 A. M.?"
"Probably," Peter said. "That's a bet I'm not taking."
