It was a little past eleven and he felt like he was in the only car on the road in the whole of Washington, DC. An impossibly clear night sky slid past above him, more stars glittering from the firmament than he could ever remember seeing under the glare of the big city lights. Road signs flashed briefly clear, blurred and were gone as his high beams washed over them. There were a few sparse flakes of snow which sparkled against the slick black-top like fairy dust.
Well it should be magical, it was Christmas Eve.
Every Christmas he dreamed of holly and ghosts and sugar plums, of that impossible throne made out of food and roaring fire the spirit of Christmas Present conjured up to dazzle Scrooge, of sleigh rides and mangers. That was how it should be. There was something about the holiday which called out for old fashioned, all-out, extravagant celebration and decoration and jubilation. He couldn't explain it, but he had a distinct craving for the grandly warm and warmly grand every year from December twentieth until January first. And every year he staggered into his chilly, unnaturally pristine bachelor apartment just before midnight, alone and unmissed, not a twig of holly in sight. Even Scrooge was missed. Tony wondered if a nephew (or a sister, for that matter) would have made things better or worse.
He always worked holidays when he could. It gave him a sense of purpose on days he'd otherwise spend drinking and striking out with the other vacuous tragedies at a bar sad or trendy enough to be open (and he was starting to think maybe sad and trendy were the same thing), but the world hadn't needed saving this year. Not the US Navy affiliated part of it, at any rate, and he was on his way home without the satisfaction of having been any use.
Some pop tart milking her fifteen minutes by casually slaughtering the classics had been singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas on his car radio. The song seemed to follow him into the darkness of his apartment and he heard its music in the splash of the red wine he poured himself to take the edge off. He ran his finger around the lip of the glass, his eyes drifting towards his windows. She sang that song through a window in the movie, always looking out into the distance, as if all the answers were out there in the world waiting to be found.
Judy Garland in "Meet Me in St. Louis", 1944. Directed by Vincent Minnelli. She'd refused to sing the original original lyrics because they were too sad. The ones she'd eventually ended up with were more bitter-sweet, but the darkness wasn't gone; it was tempered.
None of the covers ever got it right. They didn't know what it was about.
No one ever sang the real lyrics and he really wished they'd at least play Judy Garland more often if no one else was going to sing it right. It had always struck a chord for him and gradually became his very favourite Christmas song, because it was the only one he could actually relate to his own first-hand experience.
He poured more wine, singing to himself, "Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow, until then we'll have to muddle through somehow and have yourself a merry little Christmas now."
This year sucks, but try to make the best of it and maybe it'll get better some day. Now and hope are all you've got.
He understood that.
He had a prim, uptight English mother and an extravagant, passionate Italian father. He was awash in stereotypes and that was bad enough without the both of them being alcoholics. His mother had wanted to ensure he was never spoiled, but she had also thought he should be her baby forever. A sort of worst of both worlds scenario. The only child, only hope, and only joy of an overprotective manic depressive, he was barely allowed out of his room when she was coherent enough to notice and when she wasn't, he could go missing for days before anyone even wondered if something was wrong.
His father was like a seven-year-old with a puppy. He had such grand plans! He showered attention: talents, games, and ambitions were nurtured with utmost enthusiasm. Then all was forgotten in a week or less and FOR FUCK'S SAKE WHY DID HE ALWAYS GET STUCK WITH THE USELESS FUCKING BURDEN?! From chip off the old block to endless source of disappointment, either way his father never knew his son nor cared to know him. What presents were under the tree were always so staggeringly inappropriate, Tony looked forward to opening them only so that they would no longer be hanging over him, taunting him with a useless sense of hope destined to be disappointed.
And of course, Christmas Eve mostly consisted of little Anthony trying to comfort Mummy's hysterical tears while his father put away three hundred dollar a bottle Scotch at a rate of about a bottle an hour and added fuel to her fire.
It was almost a relief when she killed herself and the guilt he felt for that relief could not extinguish his joy that she'd escaped the old bastard at last. His father couldn't be bothered to hit them, but violence wasn't necessary. Physical threat, emotional deprivation, and verbal terrorism were more than enough, especially in the hands of an expert. Tony hated to use his size for intimidation, he remembered too well what it was like to be on the other side of that equation, the little, the skinny, the helpless. He wanted no one he cared for to see that he could be big, to see that he could be rough and out of control. That his killer, con-man smile and his quick wit weren't the only things he'd inherited from his father.
To the extent that anyone responsible at all had raised him, it had been their Mexican household staff. He'd been fluent in Spanish before he could read. Finding out after his mother's death that his father didn't much notice or care how his son was treated in the privacy of the family home, the staff had ceased to coddle him or pretend any affection for his presence as they went about their duties. To realise at ten that he was alone, especially when he was surrounded by people, had taught him a lesson in self-reliance which would never dim with time.
"Someday soon..."
He was singing quite loudly now, trying to block out the roaring in his ears. He had a rather lovely singing voice, though he'd never bothered to show it off much, and he hoped the neighbours would factor in its quality before making their decision about whether or not to call the building manager and complain of a nuisance.
It was the time of year for charity after all.
"Until then we'll have to muddle through..."
There was a knock at the door. He wasn't drunk enough to have imagined it, so chances were charity had failed and he was about to be given an eviction notice. Well, a stern talking to anyway. He looked down at himself; he was still wearing his work clothes and a loaded weapon was hugging his ribs, cradled in its well-worn leather holster. That was pretty irresponsible, he had to admit.
Fuck it. Worst case scenario it'd be Gibbs and he'd get an earful. He opened the door.
"Abs?" he blinked at her, not quite trusting his eyes.
She was gnawing her lip, deep red lipstick offset by festive green eye shadow and tinsel-tipped false eyelashes. "Hey, Tony."
He stared at her, watching her fidget with her bag and wondering if he should turn on his happy-go-lucky persona, but this was Abby and even if it had been Kate, he didn't have the energy for masks. He frowned at her and knew his expression was more sad and desperate than the slightly-irate-to-be-interrupted and confused-to-see-her he wanted it to be.
"What are you doing here?"
Abby nudged past him and started stripping off her warm outer clothes, revealing the electric green dress she was wearing over red tights and silver go-go boots. He was allowing a human Christmas tree into his home; his cheer-free, unseasonal, depressing home.
"Abby," he repeated firmly, "What are you doing here?"
She smiled, and he felt a physical pain. "I'm here to spread a little Christmas, Tony."
He crossed his arms disapprovingly, "Did you leave your family for this?"
She waved a hand in dismissal, "I was a family member short, they understand." She reached into her coat and brought forth a little silver package, "Here."
"If this is an engagement ring, it's all a bit sudden."
Her smile was unrelenting.
"You know you can't fix me, right?"
"Open the present, DiNozzo."
It was a framed picture of them, hugging each other so close, Abby's feet were slightly off the ground. Both of them were making ridiculous faces, the tips of their protruding tongues almost touching and their two sets of green eyes rolled back in their heads. Santa hats were expertly photo-shopped onto their heads and the image was wreathed with black holly garland. Underneath the frame were two season passes to his favourite rustic, on-demand movie theatre. They had Rocky Horror every Saturday and Citizen Kane most week nights at 0300. It was where he first saw The Defiant Ones.
She'd spent more money on him than this because it was Thursday, but it had never meant so much.
"I love you, Abs."
She stood coyly on her tiptoes with her hands behind her back and her cheek turned up for him to kiss.
He placed the kiss, lingering against her, wrapping his arms around her. "Thank-you."
"Plans for tomorrow?" Abby asked, snuggling into the embrace.
"More of the same," he squeezed her tighter. Please don't leave me alone.
"I'd really like to wake up beside you Christmas morning, if that's not imposing."
He swallowed the relief which burned his throat, blinked it out of his eyes, "Not at all."
Abby slid her hands over his shoulder blades, lifting her cheek from his chest to show him another dazzling smile. "Good, I told the parental units not to expect us until dinner."
Until then, he'd try to do better than muddle through.