--Well, I just recently got into the holiday spirit, so here it is: my first ever COTC Christmas fic! I know it's a bit early, but enjoy it now before Christmas gets too commercialized. ^_^ I appreciate any feedback whatsoever. Oh, yeah... I own Ashlee and her dad. Everyone else belongs to Stephen King. GOD, I love that man!--
Oh, the weather outside is frightful
But the fire is so delightful
And since we've no place to go
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow
They'd been driving forever.
Well, maybe she was exaggerating -- maybe it hadn't been forever. But surely somewhere close to that. When they'd first pulled out of the hotel's parking lot, the clock had read 5:20 p.m. and the passing cars had been somewhat scarce. Now the clock proclaimed that it was 8:47 p.m., and the traffic had lessened even more; there hadn't been another vehicle in sight for hours. Worst of all, it was dark -- not just dark, but a smothering darkness that choked everywhere but the two beams of headlights that cut into the night before them. Black as pitch, she'd heard somewhere before. Maybe Shakespeare. Either way, it was dark, they'd been driving for hours, and now it was starting to snow.
Ashlee Crawford stared out the windshield dejectedly. The snow was flurrying past the headlights like a swarm of powdery insects, and for some reason that thought made her skin crawl. All the bugs were supposed to be dead; if they'd been here a few months earlier, the bugs would've been devouring the corn. But the corn was dead too. All that was left were stretches of bare, chopped fields littered with broken stalks and shredded husks. Everything seemed to be dead, Ashlee noted with some distaste. Including the conversation between her and her father.
"How much longer, Frank?" she asked, twisting in her seat to look at him. Her father's profile was rigid against the window, his hands tight on the wheel. She was irritating him, and that fact made her smirk slightly.
"Dad," he corrected thinly. "And I told you fifteen minutes ago. We left Omaha about 5:30, so we should be in Hemmingford by--"
"No, Frank," Ashlee interrupted with a toss of her curly red ponytail. "We're supposed to be in Hemmingford already. An hour or so ago." He tightened his mouth a little bit.
"Dad."
"I know when we were supposed to be there," she went on, undaunted, "but what I'm asking is when we're actually going to be there." Frank pressed down a little on the gas pedal. It wasn't like they had to be worried about cops and radar guns.
"I don't know, Ashlee," he snapped. "It got dark fast--"
"Really?" she commented drily. Her father shot her a sharp look, and she closed her mouth with a smirk.
"--and the snow's really gotten thicker in the past few minutes. The ground's already so cold, I wouldn't be surprised if two or three inches stuck." Ashlee propped her elbow up on the car door and glanced out the window again.
"It's already sticking pretty good out there." She was referring to the stretch of barren cornfields, which already had a considerable layer of white powder sprinkled over it. With a sidelong glance at Frank, she added, "Go on, Dad. Pedal to the metal. There's no one out here to stop you, and we'll be in Hemmingford twice as fast."
"No can do, Ash." He was already in a better mood. That was something about her father; everything passed quickly for him, especially when remembering something was involved. As long and hard as he would protest, Frank Crawford was a grade-A scatterbrain.
"Why not?"
"It's too dangerous," he said easily, and Ashlee had to repress a roll of the eyes. "It's really coming down now, see?" Indeed, the windshield wipers were having trouble keeping up with the constant barrage of snowflakes. "But if we did need to speed up," Frank said, tapping the dashboard with pride, "we'd be set to go in this baby. Four-wheel drive, the best in its class." The car was his pride and joy: a brand new '84 Pontiac Fiero. Silver. She had to admit, it wasn't bad looking -- the "new thing", everyone was calling it -- but Ashlee didn't care for it much. She'd take the old Camaro back in a flash.
"Yeah, Frank," she said drily, and turned her attention back to the window. "It's a real cherry."
"Isn't it?" he said fondly.
"Sure. Look, can we stop for burgers soon or something? I'm starved."
"Um..." Frank grimaced and glanced at the crumpled-up map on the floor. "I promise we'll be in Hemmingford soon, Ash. You'll just have to wait 'til then." He offered her a faint smile that she had to squint to make out in the darkness. "I think I've got some snacks in the glove compartment." Ashlee made a face, but popped open the compartment anyway.
"Snacks," she muttered. "Right." A brief dig through the hole brought forth nothing; she tried again. "Frank, there's nothing in here! Are you sure you've got food?"
"Well, sure," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Let me see--" He leaned over to dig through the glove compartment as well. The car began to swerve, and Ashlee shrieked in surprise.
"Frank! Watch the road!"
"Oop!" Her father snapped back to attention and straightened the car's path. After a moment, Frank grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Ash."
"No problem," Ashlee mumbled, returning to her original search for food. "But one attempt on my life is all I'll tolerate. After one, I--" She pushed aside some old napkins from McDonald's that had smelled painfully like french fries and made a sound of frustration. "Dammit, Frank, there's no food!"
"Watch your mouth, young lady," her father said sharply, and reached over to dissemble a gathering of receipts from JC Penney's. "Right there. How could you miss it?" Ashlee retrieved the object in question and couldn't repress a groan of disappointment.
"Oh, Frank, I can't eat an old Slim Jim for dinner!"
"Why not?" Frank raised his eyebrows in that, 'What's wrong with you?' fashion she'd come to know so well in the past couple of hours.
"I'm 16 years old! I need grease and... and empty calories!" Ashlee began unwrapping it nonetheless.
"It's not that bad."
"Frank," she said, peeling back a layer of plastic from the unappetizing brown stick, "it's Christmas Eve. I should be somewhere warm, eating cookies and watching Christmas specials on TV. I'm not supposed to be gnawing on a rock hard Slim Jim in a metal box in The-Middle-Of-Nowhere, Nebraska!" She wondered briefly if that had been too harsh; Frank's face twitched a little, and Ashlee slumped down in slight guilt.
"It's not rock hard," he murmured. She couldn't resist -- Ashlee rapped the Slim Jim sharply against the dashboard. The beef jerky didn't so much as bend. There was a few long moments of silence before Frank pursed his lips tightly, eyes not straying from the road. "Fine," he spat. "I'm sorry you're not warm and full and being spoon-fed holiday commercialization, but as soon as you get to Hemmingford, I'm sure your mother will take care of all that." Now Ashlee was the one looking stiff; he had no right to be talking about her like that.
"At least she'll care about my Christmas Eve," she responded shortly. Frank's mouth tightened to a thin line.
"Let's just not talk anymore, all right?"
"Fine with me," Ashlee snapped, and turned her gaze back out to the wastelands that had once been cornfields. Outside, an inch and a half of snow had already gathered on the ground.
It doesn't show signs of stopping
And I've brought along some corn for popping
The lights are turned way down low
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow
The Children were gathered in what used to be the house of the Chroner family.
It was cold, cold enough to turn limbs numb and make skin burn with frostbite, but Amos had brought along some kindling wood and was trying to usher out a family of magpies from the chimney of the stone fireplace. The Children were huddled together for warmth until he lit a fire, some in wrapped up in thick handmade quilts and others merely rubbing their arms to generate circluation. The power had been cut some time ago -- had it been nearly three years already? -- so the older girls gathered candles and lit them all around the Chroners' old living room. It gave the place a slight glow of comfort, but only slight. Rachel and Isaac were in the kitchen.
"They ask every year, Isaac," she was murmuring. He had his back turned to her so she couldn't see him shivering in his thin jacket.
"I know they do."
"And every year, you deny them their one request." Isaac glanced briefly over his shoulder, then back to the table that had once been used in his kitchen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It had long since been hacked apart for firewood; all that remained were a few legs and the metal brackets from the piece that slid in as an extension for dinnerparties and such.
"It is a sin," Isaac said stiffly, and fought a rather violent shudder. "I will not allow sinning in times of such dire need."
"Isaac, I know you're cold," Rachel said, a slight edge on her voice. "Stop trying to hide it, because I know you are. We're all cold, Isaac, and that's why we need to let a sin slip by." She crossed her arms over her chest in an effort to keep her own fading warmth close to her body. "Unless there's something to distract them, that's all they'll be able to think about: how cold they are. They're miserable, Isaac, and so am I." Rachel paused, then added gently, "Please, Isaac, it's Christmas Eve." He whirled, fists clenched at his sides. His small body shook with violent shivering brought on by the roaring wind and freezing snow.
"The Lord will not tolerate it!" Isaac cried, his voice rising to nearly a hysterical level. "He has told me He will not! Christmas is the birth of Christ, not our God! Do not ask again!"
"Isaac, the Children," Rachel said, tone hushed.
"The Children must learn to tolerate the laws of He Who Walks Behind The Rows!" His body was shuddering hard, this time not only from the cold. Isaac stopped, squeezed his eyes shut, and finally managed to stop shaking. His voice dropped. "Go and tell them," he said quietly. "Tell them there will be no Christmas this year, as I have said in the years before." Rachel glared at him, but slowly nodded.
"Yes," she whispered, and stalked back into the living room.
Isaac rubbed at his arms to keep the circulation going. He had been trying to hide the fact that he was nearly freezing, but seeing as Rachel had noticed, he was now desperately hoping that Amos had started the fire. His eyes drifted towards the broken, dented oven in the kitchen's corner and found himself reluctantly remembering Christmas Eves passed. Remembering a time when the oven had been brand new, and warm to boot, with delicious smells wafting from it... smells of cookies and pies and turkey for the next day. The thought of them all -- mostly, the shortbread cookies his mother had baked -- made Isaac's mouth water. Oh, but he could still taste those damned cookies... warm and soft, scented faintly of the annise seeds his mother had used to prevent the undersides from burning. The back door to the kitchen slammed shut quite abruptly, and Isaac jumped, looking at the intruder and feeling as guilty as if he had been caught... well, with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Malachai," he said, half relieved and half dismayed. "What's it like out there?"
"Cold," the older boy responded bluntly, and shook his head hard, releasing a flurry of white snowflakes. They should've melted when he came inside, but Amos had yet to shoo the magpies out of the chimney and start a fire. "And snowy," Malachai added.
"I see." Isaac wanted to make a face, but he managed to hold it back. "You've brought them?"
"Yeah," Malachai said dully, gesturing behind him. It was a small group of children -- fifteen or sixteen, maybe -- all shivering violently and covered in a thin sheen of snow. The Barn Bunch, Isaac had heard Amos calling them one day.
"Take them into the living room," he said firmly. Malachai ushered the group past Isaac and out of the kitchen; he took a quick head count out of sheer habit. Fifteen in all, they were all there. He could see Mordechai's fair hair bobbing above the rest as he took protective charge of the small pool of children, and little Micah's dark mop sliding along effortlessly. He wasn't so little anymore, Isaac noted. "Malachai," he said suddenly, and the older boy turned.
"Yes, Isaac?"
"Bring some firewood from around back." Anyone else would've complained, protesting that it was too cold to be getting firewood, but not Malachai. He either saw the logic of the situation -- the fact that getting more firewood would end being cold -- or was just eager to do some more physical labor. Isaac was betting heavily on the latter.
"Yes, Isaac," Malachai said evenly, and disappeared out the door again. From the living room came a muffled cheer; Amos had finally started the fire, Isaac supposed. He paused as the smell of burning wood drifted through the door and into the kitchen. For one long, beautiful moment, it wasn't the crisp smell of night snow or charred firewood -- it was the savory scent of Christmas cookies, warm and comforting and familiar. Isaac swallowed back more saliva and closed his eyes briefly.
"Forgive me, Lord," he said softly. "I do not mean to think of such sacrilege." With a start, he realized how cold he really was. Isaac rubbed at his arms vigorously. It was silly to be standing out here in the kitchen, dreaming of cookies. So silly, it was positively... sinful. He hurried into the living room to join the rest at the fire. Perhaps he'd get some feeling back in his toes.
Oh, the weather outside is frightful
But the fire is so delightful
And since we've no place to go
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow
They'd been driving forever.
Well, maybe she was exaggerating -- maybe it hadn't been forever. But surely somewhere close to that. When they'd first pulled out of the hotel's parking lot, the clock had read 5:20 p.m. and the passing cars had been somewhat scarce. Now the clock proclaimed that it was 8:47 p.m., and the traffic had lessened even more; there hadn't been another vehicle in sight for hours. Worst of all, it was dark -- not just dark, but a smothering darkness that choked everywhere but the two beams of headlights that cut into the night before them. Black as pitch, she'd heard somewhere before. Maybe Shakespeare. Either way, it was dark, they'd been driving for hours, and now it was starting to snow.
Ashlee Crawford stared out the windshield dejectedly. The snow was flurrying past the headlights like a swarm of powdery insects, and for some reason that thought made her skin crawl. All the bugs were supposed to be dead; if they'd been here a few months earlier, the bugs would've been devouring the corn. But the corn was dead too. All that was left were stretches of bare, chopped fields littered with broken stalks and shredded husks. Everything seemed to be dead, Ashlee noted with some distaste. Including the conversation between her and her father.
"How much longer, Frank?" she asked, twisting in her seat to look at him. Her father's profile was rigid against the window, his hands tight on the wheel. She was irritating him, and that fact made her smirk slightly.
"Dad," he corrected thinly. "And I told you fifteen minutes ago. We left Omaha about 5:30, so we should be in Hemmingford by--"
"No, Frank," Ashlee interrupted with a toss of her curly red ponytail. "We're supposed to be in Hemmingford already. An hour or so ago." He tightened his mouth a little bit.
"Dad."
"I know when we were supposed to be there," she went on, undaunted, "but what I'm asking is when we're actually going to be there." Frank pressed down a little on the gas pedal. It wasn't like they had to be worried about cops and radar guns.
"I don't know, Ashlee," he snapped. "It got dark fast--"
"Really?" she commented drily. Her father shot her a sharp look, and she closed her mouth with a smirk.
"--and the snow's really gotten thicker in the past few minutes. The ground's already so cold, I wouldn't be surprised if two or three inches stuck." Ashlee propped her elbow up on the car door and glanced out the window again.
"It's already sticking pretty good out there." She was referring to the stretch of barren cornfields, which already had a considerable layer of white powder sprinkled over it. With a sidelong glance at Frank, she added, "Go on, Dad. Pedal to the metal. There's no one out here to stop you, and we'll be in Hemmingford twice as fast."
"No can do, Ash." He was already in a better mood. That was something about her father; everything passed quickly for him, especially when remembering something was involved. As long and hard as he would protest, Frank Crawford was a grade-A scatterbrain.
"Why not?"
"It's too dangerous," he said easily, and Ashlee had to repress a roll of the eyes. "It's really coming down now, see?" Indeed, the windshield wipers were having trouble keeping up with the constant barrage of snowflakes. "But if we did need to speed up," Frank said, tapping the dashboard with pride, "we'd be set to go in this baby. Four-wheel drive, the best in its class." The car was his pride and joy: a brand new '84 Pontiac Fiero. Silver. She had to admit, it wasn't bad looking -- the "new thing", everyone was calling it -- but Ashlee didn't care for it much. She'd take the old Camaro back in a flash.
"Yeah, Frank," she said drily, and turned her attention back to the window. "It's a real cherry."
"Isn't it?" he said fondly.
"Sure. Look, can we stop for burgers soon or something? I'm starved."
"Um..." Frank grimaced and glanced at the crumpled-up map on the floor. "I promise we'll be in Hemmingford soon, Ash. You'll just have to wait 'til then." He offered her a faint smile that she had to squint to make out in the darkness. "I think I've got some snacks in the glove compartment." Ashlee made a face, but popped open the compartment anyway.
"Snacks," she muttered. "Right." A brief dig through the hole brought forth nothing; she tried again. "Frank, there's nothing in here! Are you sure you've got food?"
"Well, sure," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Let me see--" He leaned over to dig through the glove compartment as well. The car began to swerve, and Ashlee shrieked in surprise.
"Frank! Watch the road!"
"Oop!" Her father snapped back to attention and straightened the car's path. After a moment, Frank grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Ash."
"No problem," Ashlee mumbled, returning to her original search for food. "But one attempt on my life is all I'll tolerate. After one, I--" She pushed aside some old napkins from McDonald's that had smelled painfully like french fries and made a sound of frustration. "Dammit, Frank, there's no food!"
"Watch your mouth, young lady," her father said sharply, and reached over to dissemble a gathering of receipts from JC Penney's. "Right there. How could you miss it?" Ashlee retrieved the object in question and couldn't repress a groan of disappointment.
"Oh, Frank, I can't eat an old Slim Jim for dinner!"
"Why not?" Frank raised his eyebrows in that, 'What's wrong with you?' fashion she'd come to know so well in the past couple of hours.
"I'm 16 years old! I need grease and... and empty calories!" Ashlee began unwrapping it nonetheless.
"It's not that bad."
"Frank," she said, peeling back a layer of plastic from the unappetizing brown stick, "it's Christmas Eve. I should be somewhere warm, eating cookies and watching Christmas specials on TV. I'm not supposed to be gnawing on a rock hard Slim Jim in a metal box in The-Middle-Of-Nowhere, Nebraska!" She wondered briefly if that had been too harsh; Frank's face twitched a little, and Ashlee slumped down in slight guilt.
"It's not rock hard," he murmured. She couldn't resist -- Ashlee rapped the Slim Jim sharply against the dashboard. The beef jerky didn't so much as bend. There was a few long moments of silence before Frank pursed his lips tightly, eyes not straying from the road. "Fine," he spat. "I'm sorry you're not warm and full and being spoon-fed holiday commercialization, but as soon as you get to Hemmingford, I'm sure your mother will take care of all that." Now Ashlee was the one looking stiff; he had no right to be talking about her like that.
"At least she'll care about my Christmas Eve," she responded shortly. Frank's mouth tightened to a thin line.
"Let's just not talk anymore, all right?"
"Fine with me," Ashlee snapped, and turned her gaze back out to the wastelands that had once been cornfields. Outside, an inch and a half of snow had already gathered on the ground.
It doesn't show signs of stopping
And I've brought along some corn for popping
The lights are turned way down low
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow
The Children were gathered in what used to be the house of the Chroner family.
It was cold, cold enough to turn limbs numb and make skin burn with frostbite, but Amos had brought along some kindling wood and was trying to usher out a family of magpies from the chimney of the stone fireplace. The Children were huddled together for warmth until he lit a fire, some in wrapped up in thick handmade quilts and others merely rubbing their arms to generate circluation. The power had been cut some time ago -- had it been nearly three years already? -- so the older girls gathered candles and lit them all around the Chroners' old living room. It gave the place a slight glow of comfort, but only slight. Rachel and Isaac were in the kitchen.
"They ask every year, Isaac," she was murmuring. He had his back turned to her so she couldn't see him shivering in his thin jacket.
"I know they do."
"And every year, you deny them their one request." Isaac glanced briefly over his shoulder, then back to the table that had once been used in his kitchen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It had long since been hacked apart for firewood; all that remained were a few legs and the metal brackets from the piece that slid in as an extension for dinnerparties and such.
"It is a sin," Isaac said stiffly, and fought a rather violent shudder. "I will not allow sinning in times of such dire need."
"Isaac, I know you're cold," Rachel said, a slight edge on her voice. "Stop trying to hide it, because I know you are. We're all cold, Isaac, and that's why we need to let a sin slip by." She crossed her arms over her chest in an effort to keep her own fading warmth close to her body. "Unless there's something to distract them, that's all they'll be able to think about: how cold they are. They're miserable, Isaac, and so am I." Rachel paused, then added gently, "Please, Isaac, it's Christmas Eve." He whirled, fists clenched at his sides. His small body shook with violent shivering brought on by the roaring wind and freezing snow.
"The Lord will not tolerate it!" Isaac cried, his voice rising to nearly a hysterical level. "He has told me He will not! Christmas is the birth of Christ, not our God! Do not ask again!"
"Isaac, the Children," Rachel said, tone hushed.
"The Children must learn to tolerate the laws of He Who Walks Behind The Rows!" His body was shuddering hard, this time not only from the cold. Isaac stopped, squeezed his eyes shut, and finally managed to stop shaking. His voice dropped. "Go and tell them," he said quietly. "Tell them there will be no Christmas this year, as I have said in the years before." Rachel glared at him, but slowly nodded.
"Yes," she whispered, and stalked back into the living room.
Isaac rubbed at his arms to keep the circulation going. He had been trying to hide the fact that he was nearly freezing, but seeing as Rachel had noticed, he was now desperately hoping that Amos had started the fire. His eyes drifted towards the broken, dented oven in the kitchen's corner and found himself reluctantly remembering Christmas Eves passed. Remembering a time when the oven had been brand new, and warm to boot, with delicious smells wafting from it... smells of cookies and pies and turkey for the next day. The thought of them all -- mostly, the shortbread cookies his mother had baked -- made Isaac's mouth water. Oh, but he could still taste those damned cookies... warm and soft, scented faintly of the annise seeds his mother had used to prevent the undersides from burning. The back door to the kitchen slammed shut quite abruptly, and Isaac jumped, looking at the intruder and feeling as guilty as if he had been caught... well, with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Malachai," he said, half relieved and half dismayed. "What's it like out there?"
"Cold," the older boy responded bluntly, and shook his head hard, releasing a flurry of white snowflakes. They should've melted when he came inside, but Amos had yet to shoo the magpies out of the chimney and start a fire. "And snowy," Malachai added.
"I see." Isaac wanted to make a face, but he managed to hold it back. "You've brought them?"
"Yeah," Malachai said dully, gesturing behind him. It was a small group of children -- fifteen or sixteen, maybe -- all shivering violently and covered in a thin sheen of snow. The Barn Bunch, Isaac had heard Amos calling them one day.
"Take them into the living room," he said firmly. Malachai ushered the group past Isaac and out of the kitchen; he took a quick head count out of sheer habit. Fifteen in all, they were all there. He could see Mordechai's fair hair bobbing above the rest as he took protective charge of the small pool of children, and little Micah's dark mop sliding along effortlessly. He wasn't so little anymore, Isaac noted. "Malachai," he said suddenly, and the older boy turned.
"Yes, Isaac?"
"Bring some firewood from around back." Anyone else would've complained, protesting that it was too cold to be getting firewood, but not Malachai. He either saw the logic of the situation -- the fact that getting more firewood would end being cold -- or was just eager to do some more physical labor. Isaac was betting heavily on the latter.
"Yes, Isaac," Malachai said evenly, and disappeared out the door again. From the living room came a muffled cheer; Amos had finally started the fire, Isaac supposed. He paused as the smell of burning wood drifted through the door and into the kitchen. For one long, beautiful moment, it wasn't the crisp smell of night snow or charred firewood -- it was the savory scent of Christmas cookies, warm and comforting and familiar. Isaac swallowed back more saliva and closed his eyes briefly.
"Forgive me, Lord," he said softly. "I do not mean to think of such sacrilege." With a start, he realized how cold he really was. Isaac rubbed at his arms vigorously. It was silly to be standing out here in the kitchen, dreaming of cookies. So silly, it was positively... sinful. He hurried into the living room to join the rest at the fire. Perhaps he'd get some feeling back in his toes.
