AN: Inspired by the inimitable forthright, a story told in bits and pieces up until Christmas Eve. Written for the fantastic The Noble Rot, who wished for Scrooge's redemption some Decembers ago.
One Year Later...
As the snow floated onto the street beyond the window of "Scrooge and Cratchit" like feathers, Bob wrote another name into his account book and mused. "It'll be a cold, cold night come Christmas this year, Mr. Scrooge."
A non-committal grunt came from the office further in. Bob smiled to himself, wrote a string of numbers, and resumed his musings. "Bit of a shame. The children ought be happy with their sleighs, but it'll be like last year I'll wager for the rest of 'em. Cold and unhappy."
Another grunt, followed by an indistinct mumble, reached his ears. "I hope there are kind souls about, doing…what was it that Lords Fabray and Heinrich said? 'Making slight provisions for the poor and destitute'?"
"This is a hint for me to make a donation, I take it?" The voice was cold, hard steel, and in spite of himself, Bob Cratchit shuddered, and his quill pen paused over the inkwell.
"W-well…"
"Then it is my duty to remind you, Bob, that I dined with Fabray and Heinrich on the second, and that your unsubtle hints are…" riffling pages, probably of an almanac. "Twelve days late."
Bob's quill remained frozen and dry for another second before a slow smile spread well-fed cheeks. Pen inked, Bob resumed his work. And he could have sworn there was a low, vaguely amused chuckle hidden somewhere beneath the scratch of pen on paper and the sound of the wood in the hearth.
For on this December afternoon Ebenezer Scrooge was alive, alive as the merrily crackling fire. Alive as Tiny Tim was.
Alive as Jacob Marley was dead.
And while the tongues of the city wagged about false contrition in the face of illness and damnation, Scrooge was, for the first time in his nine-and fifty years, truly, fiercely alive.