Catharsis

December the twenty-fifth. In the vault, it had been a special day. Christmas day. Presents were shared, and the vault was lit with soft colors. Hues of red and blue and green. The subtle shades lending the shadows an otherworldly quality, as if the vault, for one day, were somehow home to so much more than could be seen and heard, but could all be felt.

Within the cold concrete walls of the bunker, Christmas brought an ethereal warmth and calm which would envelope Jason, and leaving him helplessly at peace. Jason was an atheist. His father had encouraged him to believe in the kindness and inherent good in human beings. Yet as he had lain on his thin bed on Christmas eve, the Christmas lights in the vault hall outside shining through his window and throwing quietly elegant and colorful geometry upon the ceiling of his room, he had felt close to…something. Though he could never quite identify exactly what it was.

There was a magic to the season. Not of gift-giving. Nor did it stem from the gaiety of happy friends and family. Rather, it ran far deeper, and could only be found in quiet solitude, oft during the darkest, loneliest hours of the night as he lay awake, caught in the realm between reality and dreams. It came unbidden and left the gift of reassurance, of continuity, and of peace. And always, a hint of sadness.

It was Catharsis. A cleansing, of sorts... A beginning and an end. It left the mind at peace, and the soul as clean as newly fallen snow. It brought images to Jason's mind. Flashes of things he'd never seen. Sensations he'd never felt. The soft and sticky crunch of snow under booted foot, the warm cocoon of a thick blanket, even as the endless cold wind blew, and thousands of tiny crystals fell upon the world, transforming the landscape into an alien sight. A world better left to its own devices. The desecration of footprints upon the untarnished, hallowed ground of a winter field. The sight of moonlight reflecting off of a frozen lake, many many miles from human eyes. Soft sheaves of snow clinging to the frozen branches of evergreens. Even the light of a candle, flickering from a frosted window.

Not since his father's death had Jason felt that cleansing magic. Not since he first pulled a trigger against another human being had he seen those images, felt those sensations. There had been no calm. No peace. No end in sight.

Yet as he sat against his father's gravestone, watching the moonlight reflect off the streams of cool purified water, it came upon him, filling him with both grief and contentment. He gathered his duster in close, turning up his collar to block out a chilly breeze. He reached up and gently tucked his ears under his red bandana to keep them warm. He shut his eyes and opened himself up to the feeling, drinking it in and allowing it to carry him away.

Feet crunched on the rough gravel. Jason looked up and stared into his father's eyes. The man was there, yet his features were bathed in a ghostly pale blue light which kept him somehow detached from the rest of the world. And as Jason took him in, he noticed that James Howlett's feet were never quite level with the ground he walked on.

James smiled down at his son. "Are you going to move over?"

"I'm pretty sure there was no psycho in that molerat stew…" Jason replied, examining the pale figure.

"There was none." The man said.

"So what are you, then? A ghost?" Jason shuffled over.

James laughed and took a seat beside his son. "If you like…"

They sat for a while, watching the flowing water. Eventually, Jason let out a long, shuddering breath. He whispered, "I'm sorry I didn't shoot the glass, Father."

"You acted as I had hoped you would. You worked hard to save yourself and Madison's team. You've done much for the wasteland, and I'm very proud of you, son."

The ghost laid it's hand upon his shoulder. Jason found himself leaning into it, though he could not feel any of the warmth or pressure of a human hand.

"I know how much you've done, Jason." James told him gently. "How hard you've fought for this…" he gestured at the purifier, "I've seen it all. I know how many lives you've saved, and how many people you've helped. How much you've built."

"I had to repay you somehow…" Jason explained, his voice quivering.

"You fulfilled your end by escaping the Enclave that day." James told him. "I'd go so far as to say that nothing was owed to begin with. I acted as any decent father should have."

"But you gave up…everything."

"Everything which didn't matter." James responded. "You were always the most important thing to me. And I'm here to give you one last gift."

Jason turned to him.

James smiled. "You've done incredible things with the gifts you were given, Jason. And despite everything which has happened, I know that your life and your story is just beginning." His smile faded slightly. "I know that you feel you owe me a debt. Or perhaps the wasteland does, and either way you've done all of this while trying to repay it."

Jason nodded.

"I'd like you to consider it paid, my son. Living your life now as you see fit is the greatest honor you can do my sacrifice."

Jason sniffed and blinked back tears.

"I have to leave now." James told him, "Do as you will, but do no more on my account. And remember: I've very proud of you."

"Don't-" Jason began, reaching out to the pale figure.

"Hold out your hand, Jason." James instructed, even as he faded away, eroding like dust in the wind. Jason obeyed, stretching out his arm to its full length. He held it out as the seconds ticked by. After a short time, a large white snowflake drifted down and landed in his palm. Its magnificent symmetrical structure was briefly visible, and then it melted into the warmth of his hand. He looked up at the sky to see hundreds, thousands, millions more snowflakes, each one unique, and all drifting down to land upon him and all around him. He pulled his coat around himself even tighter, crossing his arms and bowing his head to form a warm blissful cocoon. And for the first time in two centuries, a mysterious cleansing blanket of newly-fallen snow fell upon the wasteland, and the world was renewed.

Not sure exactly how this fits into Modus Operandi continuity. I'm not sure it has to. If I had to place it, it would be after Mutatis Mutandis. Which hasn't even been written yet. Just take it as you like, or leave it alone. Maybe he was visited by his father's ghost. Maybe there WAS psycho in the molerat stew. Maybe he's just nuts. I couldn't tell you which. I was busy trying to capture the "Christmas Feeling", and it ended up being a Fallout fic. So here's a Jason Howlett's Christmas Special. If I had to set this to music, I'd use the Huron Carol as sung by the Elora Festival Singers. Everyone Google it. It's the greatest piece of Christmas music ever written. Especially when done with a skilled choir.

Merry Christmas everybody.