A/N: J.O.S. Continuum. Here's some Christmas fluff! Yay! Jazz x Ghost Writer…we still need to come up with a shipping name for them. Enjoy! This is placed during the Christmas after Adrift. I wanted to write a Christmas one-shot, so I realized that I hadn't revealed how Jazz learned Ghost Writer's name. Enjoy!

Shot #10: Jazz's College Life: Name

Jazz sips at her hot chocolate, glancing at the snow beyond her apartment windows. She pulls her fleece throw tighter around her shoulders. She sits cross-legged in front of her television, which plays a recording of a fire along with some Christmas music. A large book lays in her lap.

Her eyes catch the calendar on the wall – Christmas Eve. Four days until her final roommate, Lisa, moves out. She's getting married a week after she moves out, and she's about to move in with her soon-to-be husband. Allie had moved after Thanksgiving – she'd quit school and returned to her hometown. She'd since become a hair stylist, and seemed pretty happy in her e-mails.

"You look troubled," someone comments, almost causing her to spill her coffee.

She turns her head to the couch, locking eyes with Ghost Writer. He's dressed almost as usual, his grey scarf wrapped a little more tightly around his neck, and his purple coat buttoned, "Ghost Writer?"

"I found the book you were looking for," he lifts the tome in his hand, its leather cover faded and scuffed, "I'd had it out about four months ago, but Skulker chased some of his prey into my library and I finally found it kicked beneath a desk."

"You didn't have to bring it to me," she comments, taking it from his cold hand, "I would've gotten it when I dropped this one off."

"You said your project was due this week. I wasn't sure when you'd be back and wanted to make sure this got to you in time," he scratches at his trimmed goatee, "I probably needed a little bit of a break anyway."

"Writer's block?" she asks.

"Yes. Even I short out occasionally. This author," he snorts, "He had only the vaguest ideas of what he wanted, and it was as convoluted as possible. I'm exhausting myself trying to work out how everything connects and makes any sense."

"…want some hot chocolate?"

"…I don't want to impose–"

"Don't worry about it," she laughs, marking her page, "Let me get you some. Maybe I can help you out. You've helped me out a ton, after all. It'd be nice to return the favor," she smiles a little, "Give me just a second."

Ghost Writer leans back into the couch and takes a deep breath. It's been a long time since he last left his library – besides his little excursion to Walker's prison. He'd been disappointed to find that the little café he'd frequented in his youth was long gone. He'd had to make do with the more popular Starbucks. Thankfully, there was some sort of convention nearby, so he didn't even have to attempt to hide his ghostly aura or mask his appearance. An exhausting trick he'd rather not have to use.

"Here," Jazz smiles, handing him a mug carefully, offering a candy-cane, "Do you want mint?"

"I would love some," he smiles, taking it carefully from her delicate fingers and using it to stir his hot chocolate.

Jazz seats herself on the other end of the couch, "So did you come through the Fenton Portal and fly all the way here?"

He laughs, "Miss Fenton, I can warp the fabric of reality. You don't think I can open a portal at the entrance of your apartment building?"

"You must be pretty powerful. Danny only recently learned how to tear holes into the Ghost Zone."

He shrugs, "I think it's less a matter of power and more a matter of abilities. I can't freeze something – not immediately, anyway. I have to provide a set of circumstances to explain why something happens. If I already had ice, I could probably expand it. I can't create things. I can only manipulate what already exists. There was already a portal forming nearby; I simply told it where to drop me off."

She nods absently, pulling her legs onto the couch, curling them to her side, "I see. It's still pretty impressive."

"Thank you. I'd like to think I'm not exactly a pushover," he sips at his hot chocolate.

"Jazz, who are you…?" Lisa peers around the corner, rubbing at her eyes, "…talking…to…"

"Sorry, Lisa," Jazz laughs, "Did we wake you up?"

Ghost Writer glances at the clock, which reads eight-thirty. He furrows his eyebrows.

"No, I was already getting up. I should've woken up when my alarm went off. Working graveyard really knocks my circadian rhythm out, you know? Now I won't be able to sleep all night, which sucks, because I work seven-to-seven tomorrow."

Jazz winces, "Sorry. Oh, I should introduce you. This is Ghost Writer, the librarian of the Ghost Zone. Ghost Writer, this is Lisa, my roommate. She's getting married in…eleven days or so."

"Congratulations," he smiles graciously, "I wish you the best."

"Thank you," Lisa blushes softly, "It doesn't really feel real, you know? In four days, I move into a new house with him and we nail down the last few details for the reception…it's just happening so fast, and yet…"

"It's not coming fast enough," he smirks.

"Yeah," she laughs, sitting on the floor across from Ghost Writer and Jazz, forming something of a triangle.

"Life's like that," he comments quietly, almost wistfully.

"I'll be off to Amity tomorrow, and stay for a few days, then I'll be heading straight for her wedding," Jazz laughs, "Well…a few days early, to double-check my dress."

"Are you a bridesmaid?" Ghost Writer inquires.

"Yep," she laughs.

"My mom chose the dresses," Lisa grimaces, "The bridesmaid ones. I'm sorry, they're absolutely awful."

"Nonsense…" Jazz assures unconvincingly, "It's me. It clashes with my hair…"

"No, my mom just chose a hideous shade of green, and we didn't have the funds to change it when I pitched a fit."

"I saw it on Marci. It looked pretty awesome."

"Olive green would look good on Marci, because Marci looks good in everything. I told Mom she couldn't base the dress on how it looked on her. She didn't listen to me…" she groans, "Jazz, it's going to be a disaster."

"No one will remember the bridesmaid dresses anyhow," Ghost Writer assures quietly, his calm voice cutting through her growing hysteria, "They'll only be looking at the bride and groom. Do you like your dress?"

"Yeah…"

"Then let your bridesmaids worry about theirs…though I must admit, I'm curious, Miss Fenton," he smirks, "about what this hideous dress looks like."

Lisa stares at him for a moment, scanning his face, "You should come."

"…come…?"

"To the wedding," she explains, "It's not like Jazz has a date."

"Is that a problem?" Jazz hisses, "I've been busy, okay?"

"You need to get out, Jazz," she snorts.

Ghost Writer shifts uncomfortably, downing the rest of his hot chocolate in a scalding wave, "You know…I think I just figured out how to write that section I was stuck on and my fingers are itching to get home and type," he taps his foot impatiently, "Obsessions, you know. Might I trouble you for a little assistance in getting home, Miss Fenton?"

"Y-yeah," she smiles, taking the porta-portal from its place beside the television and calibrating it to his general area, "See you soon. Thanks for bringing it all the way here to me."

"Not a problem. I needed a little time out anyhow," he assures, stepping through the glowing circle of the portal, which winks out behind him. As soon as the portal is returned to its proper place, she whirls on Lisa.

"What are you doing?!"

"He's not bad looking, for a ghost. And you should have a date. You've been in college for...a little over two years now? You've never had a date…well, not one I've known about. Then again, if you've been going to his library…"

"I'm not dating Ghost Writer!" she hisses softly.

"I'm not saying you have to," she assures, "But if you want some company at the wedding that you can actually have a conversation with besides me…it'll be a long wedding for you without him. I'm giving you permission to bring a ghost to my wedding, Jazz. Look at it a compensation for the dress."

"…I'll think about it."

-BREAK-

He'll be up, she assures herself, glancing at her watch. Eleven-thirty. She's never up this late.

Chalk it up to Christmas.

She skips up the steps and opens one of the wooden double-doors carefully, "I can't believe I forgot it," she sighs, checking the little bag again, wondering if she bought the right gift, "He probably has it already anyway," she mutters halfheartedly.

The book from the store Sam had shown her peeks up at her through the tissue paper. It's old, but kept in good shape. The preface states that the author died – though it fails to specify how – before it was published. His family had found the book scribbled out on sheets of notebook paper and gotten a few copies published – though only a handful, enough for each family member to keep it in his memory. The Skulk and Lurk hadn't read the back, obviously, or they'd know they had one of six copies ever made. It'd sell for a fortune, and she'd picked it up for fifteen dollars.

In Loving Memory of Cecil Crawford

November 13, 1944 – December 23, 1970

It doesn't even have a title. Only the dedication is printed on the cover. The story within is one of a self-conscious, nervous, writer who gets into an automobile accident and finds himself thrown into a fantasy realm, where he meets a beautiful elven mercenary. She teaches him the way of their world, and they begin to travel together. As the years go by, the writer becomes a swordsman and it's revealed that he was prophesied to defeat an evil king. He nearly dies, but surmounts all odds and defeats the evil king…

…only to learn that he's been dead all along and that the world he was living in was the vivid dream that passed his eyes in his final breath. The last thing he sees is the last page of his novel, falling to the pavement as the car that hit him speeds away. His eyes lock on the little word in the bottom-corner of the page.

Fin.

She'd loved it. The ending was painful, but she couldn't deny liking the twist. She hadn't seen it coming.

"I hope he likes it too," she whispers before raising her voice, "Ghost Writer?"

"Miss Fenton?" he questions, and she looks up, to where he leans against the banister, "Is something wrong?"

"No," she laughs, lifting the bag a little, "I just…forgot to give you your Christmas present."

"A Christmas present?" he floats down from above, "For me?"

"Yeah, Ghosts celebrate Christmas, after all."

"You didn't have to," he glances up at a clock on his wall, "You're not usually up this late, are you?"

She shrugs, "I was working on my paper when I looked over and saw that I'd left it sitting on my desk. I didn't even check the time," she lies. She'd laid in bed, ready to sleep, but the little sack had glared at her from across the room. It'd taken a few minutes to make herself presentable again.

"Well, I almost never sleep, so you never really have to. My doors are always open for you," he smiles, sipping at a cup of coffee. He reaches out with a hand, waiting for her to hand it over.

"Here, Merry Christmas, Ghost Writer," she smiles.

"…may I open it now?" he inquires, setting his mug on a table.

"Y-yeah, it's probably best that way," she agrees.

He carefully plucks away the tissue paper, pulling out the little novel.

"I enjoyed it, and wondered if you'd read it – I have a receipt if you have, so don't worry about–"

He's gone completely still, his eyes locked in shock at the little book.

"…Ghost Writer? …What's wrong?"

He jumps a little, "Nothing, I was just…"

She eyes him carefully.

"I was just silently snickering about your luck," he smirks, "and funny little coincidences. I thought that it was practically nonexistent nowadays."

"So you are familiar with it," she groans, "Of course you are."

"No," he laughs, waving his hands, "The name. Cecil. It's not a common name, so I haven't heard it in a long time…"

"Did you know someone named Cecil?" she asks, berating herself mentally, "Sorry, I asked before thinking–"

"–it was my name," he answers quietly, "Is my name," he traces the cover softly.

"I…" she swallows thickly, watching his distant eyes, "Ghost Writer, I–"

"–Cecil," he corrects, "Could you please…? It's…It's been a long time since I've heard anyone…Randy doesn't remember me. He was so little when I…"

"…Cecil," she smiles, "If I call you by your name, you call me by mine."

"Miss Fenton–"

"–Jazz."

"Jasmine, then," he relents, his eyes shining with threatening tears, "Thank you. I couldn't have asked for anything better for Christmas."

She sweeps him into a hug, "You're welcome, Cecil."

A/N: Tadaa!

(In case you were wondering, Ghost Writer is his title, not his name…in my 'verse, anyway.)