Title: Knitting Lives Together
Characters: Molly
Rating: G
Word Count: 1400
Warnings: No spoilers. Pre-canon.
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply.
Notes: Written for the comm 221b_advent in December 2012. The idea was spwaned by neurotoxia.
I.
"Yes. Of course, yes. Love you too. Bye," Molly said and hung up.
Unwilling to let go just yet, her hand remained on the receiver and her head against the wall. Another Christmas spent all by herself, without human contact. It was a little frustrating really, to always cover the attendance shifts on holidays. She didn't mind it so much when there was work to do - it was some sort of human contact, after all. Molly knows best how sad this sounds, but it wasn't that bad. (At least dead bodies weren't as intimidating as live ones.)
The frustrating thing was not about having to be on stand-by; rather, it was that she didn't have as much of a claim on holidays as her coworkers did, because she didn't have a "family." Prerequisites were a husband and kids. True, Molly had none of these, but she still had a family. A dwindling family no less, and with the declining health of her mother who knew how many times more they could celebrate under a tree together?
Molly sighed and pushed herself off the wall. This year too she would continue the custom of watching re-runs of whatever heart-achingly sweet kitsch-movie it was this time. Just to get a taste of someone else's Christmas celebration. (She especially adored the ones with the talking dogs.)
When she was younger, she had used to watch these movies with her grandmother. For the occasion they would have made all sorts of cookies, with vanilla or hazelnuts, walnuts or cinnamon, with jam filling or without. Her grandmother would have placed her Christmas plates - the light blue earthenware ones with the children ice-skating or building snowmen - on the green-and-red-and-glitter tablecloth and prepared hot chocolate with a pinch of chili and a dash of cream in mugs that wished you a merry Christmas.
In a way her heart still swelled and overflowed like it did back then, but she wouldn't let it affect her eyes. She was a big girl now and big girls could cope with loneliness. There was a certain procedure to follow:
Step 1) Make Tea
Molly put on some water, went through her array of tea bags - green, black, mint, chamomille, some unidentifiable blend of unknown origin - and settled for something suitably wintery. She filed through her cabinet for the mug she used on such occasions. Ironically, Garfield's grumpy face never failed to cheer her up.
When the steaming water soaked through the leaves, the aroma of lemon grass and anis livened up her kitchen.
Step 2) Make a Bath
She would love to soak in the tub with a good book, but would have to skip this part of her Get-Well-Recipe. Her pager might go off any second, and the image of jumping out of the bathwater into the winter air wasn't very relaxing. No, she better put it off for another day when she had definite time available to spend on herself and her well-being. Today was rather... not so good. Her preoccupation with work stood in the way of letting go completely.
Step 3) Wear Something Comfy
This one was easy: she picked out the pink fleece sweater that she loved to death - as the well-worn cuff edges could attest. It served her well on all kinds of occasions, especially on days off when de-stressing was top priority and every conducive detail was most welcome. Once thrown on, it enveloped her skin like a membrane she never wanted to shed again. She often found herself grocery shopping or flat cleaning in it. The discoloured spots on the arms and hem were bleach residues. Oh well, it might become a pattern one day.
She twirled in front of the mirror once and returned to the kitchen for her tea.
Step 4) Bake Some Sweets
Another suggestion rendered unfeasible by time constraints and other circumstances. Granted, she often skipped this part even when time was not the issue. She had made this list in her early bachelor days and back then, baking frenzies had calmed her. And won her plus points with her coworkers, who received the leftovers. Well, she called it leftovers, but most often it was the whole batch.
In recent months though, baking had become more of a chore than a pleasure and so she neglected stocking up on ingredients. She had to be in the right mood to bake now. Almost as if in precognition, that mood had swept her up two days ago. And these biscuits she hadn't surrerendered to the staff. (Smith and Hughes have been kind of rude to her lately, but that might be the Christmas stress.)
Molly placed her tea on the living room table and went to a cupboard to take out the tupperware dishes she had hidden her biscuits away in. A waft of vanilla, cloves, and cardamom greeted her the moment she opened the lid. She put some of them in a bowl that she placed next to her Advent wreath, or what served as one. It was a glittery structure of silver and blue with alternating painted fir cones and candle bearers. In the middle a small snowman looked back at her with round, polished eyes and a pebble smile.
It was a custom she knew from her grandmother: starting with the fourth, each Sunday before Christmas Eve she had lighted another candle until all four were burning on the last Sunday. Molly had never thought to ask why she did that; as a child, she had explainded it with her grandmother's fondness for candles.
Step 5) Get Cozy
This last step sounded unnecessary, but it was easier to follow an order than to allow herself the freedom to relax. Even if that order came written in many flourishes and adorned with hearts and kittie stickers.
With a clear conscience, Molly picked up her wool from the table, tucked her feet under the blanket on the sofa and turned on the TV. A random channel, as it only served as a source of noise and light (was that Macaulay Culkin?). She concentrated more on the knitting - another thing her grandmother had taught her - than on the watching.
The year she had learned how to knit, Molly gave her mother a scarf for Christmas. It was red with thin white stripes that were sometimes two, sometimes three rows wide. Only when she had wanted to add the tassels had she noticed that the scarf was broader on one end.
Despite the shortcomings of her own presents, those had been the best holidays she could remember. All that had involved her grandmother were her favourites. After her death, when Molly was eight, they hadn't been as cheerful. Her parents lacked the magic to transform Christmas into something extraordinary.
Still, she had enjoyed spending it together with them and even after she had moved out, she had tried to make it every year. When her father had still been alive, her parents would visit her when her job kept her from quitting London. Now, her mother had no means to come - she had no car, refused to use public transportation alone and cabs were too expensive for her, even if Molly said she would pay the bill.
So now she had come full circle. Although she had set out to ignore the loneliness, thinking of her mother, who was also alone in her home, directed her attention to it again and she wondered who else was out there, all by themselves on a day she had only ever associated with togetherness.
There had to be others like her. She couldn't be the only bachelor in the world, after all. What did they do?
The ball of wool rolled to the floor; Molly had tugged the string too hard. Why was she so intent on finishing these mittens at all? There was no one to give them to now. Initially, she had planned to give them to her mother as a copy of her own pink ones with the floral band in the middle - only these were red. And a little too long by now. She hadn't been paying attention.
If she could arrange it, Molly would visit her mother before New Year's. She always tried to, when they couldn't spend Christmas together. Plenty of time to reduce this mitten to her mother's size.
Looking at it, though, she was reluctant to pull the string. If only she had someone other than her mother to give them to.
Maybe next year, she thought and tugged.