Disclaimer: I do not own Enterprise or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.
Author's note: Thank you so much to my beta readers for getting this done in such a quick turnaround time. Silvershadowfire, gaianarchy and kate98, you are the best.
(Some offhand references to Season 3, but otherwise, no spoilers)
Spirits
Every year it was the same. Dreary evenings, dull relatives and mindless chatter. Too much cheeriness masking a profound lack of cheer. Too many fake smiles, too many cold hugs.
But not the last few – for them there was nothing at all. Out here there were no seasons, no marking of the days, no drinking of the nights. So nice, not having to deal with the falsity of it all, to simply ignore it altogether. Especially after last year – murderers and pirates didn't deserve holidays. Festiveness seemed wrong in the face of such bloody perfidy. Instead he'd raised a glass to those who were denied it forever. Catherwood, Ellis, Edward and Greggs; Kells and Linehan – all good people and now all lost souls. Dammed to whatever chains soldiers deserved, whatever weights and shackles that went with being the victims of war.
Malcolm stared at the ceiling, wondering if something was wrong. It didn't look right – it looked… wrong. Not-right, somehow.
Let me get this straight. You have a full, British public school education, you speak several languages, have a literature collection that would be the envy of many small libraries, and the best you can come up with is not-right?
Malcolm thought.
I guess so. After all, he wasn't Dickens – they paid him by the week, not the word. Then again, if Malcolm Reed had written 'A Christmas Carol' the Ghost of Christmas Present would still be soused, but he wouldn't be happy about it.
Maybe that was it – maybe it was the brandy. He glanced down at the snifter that dangled in his hand, swirling its seasonal fumes towards the ceiling. Why brandy? Why brandy except for the fact that it was that time of year, so therefore it needed to be drunk, for no other reason but to feel appropriately miserable. It went with the warm, non-uniform sweater and casual pants he'd chosen to put on – drinking and duty never mixed, except that once, but he'd been bullied into it. But this was a holiday, and holidays demanded uncomfortable, informal dress like they demanded bitter spirits and wretchedness.
this is important
no it isn't. this is nothing. you're wasting your time
'…if you knew time as well as I do, you wouldn't talk about wasting it.'
"I don't believe in ghosts, so you can give it up." If it weren't for Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Hess, he wouldn't believe in voices from the ventilation system, either. Even ones that quoted Lewis Carroll.
There was a swift muttering from the air-grate.
they'll kill us if they catch us.
then they'll just have to not catch us.
are you insane?
bloody hell.
"Well put." Malcolm raised his glass towards the vent. "Now bugger off."
There was another muttering and then:
what's that?
in legal terms, duress. in real terms, do what i say, or i'll shoot you
but they'll kill us
think of me as more immediate. and who says i plan to get caught?
"The man listening to you make your plans?" Some people should never try to pull off capers. These two definitely counted among them.
"Actually," the confessed weapon-wielder stepped through the wall and pointed a small, squarish object at him. She looked human, but humans didn't go through solid objects like that. She couldn't have been more than eighteen, with short, dark hair, and what looked to be a perpetual scowl. "You're the plan."
Malcolm laughed, nastily. "Me. And you would be?"
"Call me Jane." She looked at him straight on – he wished he had an armchair he could slouch in to make the picture complete.
Drunken old man alone in a room with teenage girl. If he was in less of a fatalistic mood, he might have considered the implications. Right now, he felt himself past the point of implications. He also might have considered how she got there, and what sort of plans she had in mind. "If you're here to shoot me, then shoot me. Otherwise…" He patted the bunk beside him.
"I don't have time to sit down. Well I do… but I'd rather get on with this." Instead she marched over and snatched the glass out of his hand and put it on his desk. Then she came back and grabbed his hand.
"You do seem a bit young." Not that it wasn't a fantasy, but that tendency towards realism was just too damned in-bred.
She jerked his arm hard enough to pull him straight out of the bunk, nearly dislocating his shoulder in the process. "I am not a kid."
uh, jane? A tiny, tinny voice served as a reminder that someone else remained in the impossible space behind the wall.
'Jane' rolled her eyes and reached into the wall. What she pulled out, she held by the collar. Short and pasty, her companion looked like he spent too many days tanning by the light of a computer. Hunched shoulders and a squinty expression backed it up.
"Malcolm, this is Melvin." Jane released her catch and he busied himself trying to straighten rumpled clothing, with the nervous gestures of a person not used to much human interaction, let alone contact. "Melvin, Malcolm. Melvin is a techno-geek. He's not supposed to be here."
"Neither of us is supposed to be here." Melvin's voice wasn't much better in reality. Nasal and squeaky at the same time with that air of constant complaininess. "This is completely illegal. If they find out what you're doing…"
"Fuck them. They already know my opinions on the subject." Jane turned back to Malcolm. "Remember a man named Daniels?"
Daniels? Oh, yes, reality was a bastard. "You're temporal agents."
"Up until about thirty seconds ago, yes. Well, Melvin was never a field agent, as you can probably guess." Jane seemed totally unconcerned, while behind her Melvin chewed on already destroyed fingernails. "Now that we've illegally accessed the time-stream, we're inter-temporal criminals. This is the first place they're going to look though, so let's move." She pulled out another small device and tapped a couple of things on it. "In a couple of seconds there's going to be a scramble in here, and if you're not with us, you're going to be a part of it." She grinned, but it wasn't friendly, or even necessarily happy. "So… are you with us?"
"Do I get a choice?" Scrambling sounded almost tempting at the moment. It couldn't be worse than the brandy.
She grabbed him by the ear, and dragged him into close proximity, that nasty little grin getting wider. "No."
Reality faded and twisted, and he found himself wanting to throw up. Then it settled into a mere blur, then finally resolved, and he found himself alone.
"Hey." He looked around, but couldn't find his abductors. "Lovely." First she grabbed him from his isolation, then she isolated him in a grey, dreary piece of countryside. Well, village, really… he could see a few dim lights not that far away, and the smell of wood smoke was strong enough to tell him that whomever it was that lived there, they weren't much into ecologically sound practices.
Not much of a village, really, just a small street and a few shops and – there really was a God – a pub, its wooden sign creaking in the bitter wind.
He opened the door and stepped inside, warm air rushing out to greet him. He looked around, suddenly grateful that he wasn't in uniform, for it would be hard to explain in these surroundings. A few old men populated the sparse tables, along with some younger, serious drinkers who were wearing uniforms, but they didn't conform to Starfleet styles. Not by a couple hundred years, especially if calendar on the wall was any indication. 1942. A year of deprivations and fear, with people dying by the thousands, doing a job they weren't trained – or sometimes even asked – to do. Brave lads all of them, even if they were to scared to move or even breathe. Even if they hated it, they were brave and they were good – because that's what you called the boys who fought for your side. The last of the unqualified heroes. Every war from here on in would be regarded with suspicion, its veterans returning to mutterings and outright vilification, even if they won. But not here, not now. The only villains around here were those on the other side, or those unwilling to fight, and they were considered beneath contempt.
"Christmas Past?" he muttered. He found himself a place in the corner and sat down. The old men eyed him suspiciously – a stranger in their pub probably wasn't too common. Or welcome for that matter.
"On leave?" The barmaid came over – if Jane was barely eighteen, he'd put this one closer to sixteen.
The perils of war. Children pressed into service because there weren't adults left to fill the jobs. "Yes." It would be the only acceptable excuse: he clearly wasn't physically disabled, so he'd have to be on leave. It was either that or lay claim to insanity or cowardice, and those would end up with him back out in the cold. Hero or coward… there were no in-betweens these days.
"What can I get for you?"
"Nothing, thank you." Captain Archer had mentioned that one of the perils of the past was currency. I may be a cutthroat, but I'm not going to steal a drink. "The fire's enough." Besides, he was drunk enough for the moment. Not very drunk, but just enough that he didn't want to get any further down that particular path. Not that there would be much to drink – the government had rationed alcohol this year, along with food, and soap and pretty much everything else. 'Shortages' they called it – shortages caused by pulling young men off the farms and handing them guns. Not that there was a choice: the alternative would have been to allow a madman to run them over – a madman with very astute people standing behind him. People who were willing to murder by the millions, simply to eliminate anyone they perceived as a threat, or simply didn't like. Maybe this time there were no aliens helping out, but that didn't matter. The aliens had only added to the threat that the National Socialists presented. Even now, without them, Hitler controlled most of Europe, even if he was being hammered back bit by bit, by Montgomery at El-Alamein and the Russians at Stalingrad. It would be another year and a half before D-Day was launched; right now it could still go either way.
She looked at him oddly, but said nothing. His clothes didn't lend themselves to pleas of poverty – not a pristine, heavy wool sweater, its colours still bright, nor his smart black pants or unscuffed shoes. Rather, they screamed the existence of money – no one but the wealthy could afford new clothing, let alone garments of this level of quality.
"I'm just waiting for someone," he confessed. And they'd better get here soon, or I'm going to hurt someone. Normally he'd have qualms about striking a woman, much less a girl. But Jane seemed to need a good slap, just to knock her on level with everyone else.
The girl wandered off, and spoke a few words with the old men who turned their attention back to her – a far more interesting subject than Malcolm.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think. If Jane and Melvin didn't show up, then what? Was he doomed to live out his life in the past? Would Daniels and his people find him? If so, what would they do about it?
He heard a noise in front of him, of chairs being pulled out and people sitting down. He opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by the younger contingent – and a spare drink in front of him. "Thank you, but…"
"You've got the look of someone who needs it," the speaker was American by his accent… no, Canadian, Malcolm corrected himself, looking again at the uniform. RCAF insignia decorated the man's shoulder – the name Mackenzie was stitched on his pocket. Other uniforms identified a Foster and a Campbell, plus a Norman and a Krzyzaniak. "You've been over there."
"What makes you say…"
"Man gets a look," Mackenzie opined, and the others nodded their agreement. "After he's seen too much. You can tell the ones who've never seen it – they still look like they believe in God, and Justice, and humanity. You've got the other look, the one that says otherwise."
"Well, I'll admit to that." He'd seen far too much, and done it too.
"Combat fatigue," weighed in Krzyzaniak. "You look like a man who's damn close to having it." He paused. "A friend of mine from home… he had it."
Post-traumatic stress disorder. It went by many names – 'battle heart' in the American Civil War, 'shell-shock' emerged from the new hells of a World War I trench. Here they called it 'combat fatigue,' but later they'd find new names and new reasons for it. He'd talked to the doctors – they all had upon Enterprise's return. He'd been pronounced hale and hearty and fit for duty…
"Yeah, the doctors do say that, don't they?" Krzyzaniak snorted. "Unless you're raving, they'll ship you back again – keep you going."
"'There was only one catch and that was Catch-22. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to.'" Malcolm quoted softly. Joseph Heller had written about the American Air Force, but it could have applied to any other.
"Amen to that." Krzyzaniak raised his glass and the others followed suit, accepting the words as Malcolm's own. "We're all crazy. But God willing, it's over soon, and we all go home."
God willing. Strange words to speak in the middle of a war, when God seemed so far gone as to not exist. Had God been willing when they'd left a ship full of strangers to die? Had God been willing when they slaughtered a moon-base full of innocent scientists?
"God," he snorted.
"'There are no atheists in foxholes.'" Mackenzie came back with a quote of his own. "When you're going to die…"
"I'd rather shoot back, then spend my time praying," Malcolm responded dryly. "If there's a God, he knows where I am."
"That's a helluva thing to say on Christmas, friend." Campbell spoke up, raising his dark eyes to meet Malcolm's.
"I'm not much of a Christmas person." As for belief, he wasn't sure what he believed. Was there a God? If so, then Malcolm hadn't met him yet. As for Christmas… he had enough Scots blood to know that it was mid-winter festivals were too common to be sacred. Holly and mistletoe, indeed. I might as well hunt a wren as light a candle. Neither one would make the darkness lurking inside him go away.
"Scrooge himself is haunting our table," Krzyzaniak proclaimed. He waved his hand for another round of drinks. "Be visited by some Christmas spirits."
"Gladly." Those spirits he believed in. And if they couldn't light the darkness, at least they could warm the cold a little. "I would buy, but my pockets are rather empty."
"Call it a present, then," Krzyzaniak decided. "And if you ever find yourself in Winnipeg, you can finish the exchange."
"If," Malcolm agreed. If Krzyzaniak out-lived the war, and Malcolm got lost in the mists of time. Neither prospect carried very good odds – Heller hadn't been joking when he said you had to be crazy to fly. And between Jane and Daniels, Malcolm was liable to be whisked away, before he could even finish the…
Oh God. Reality twisted, and his stomach too. This time the sickness was worse. Then... "Ow."
Another fire burned in another fireplace, in surroundings both strange and entirely familiar. He held his breath, hoping he hadn't been heard, because he didn't want to explain the impossible. But the figure in the armchair didn't move, even at a voice that shouldn't be there. Malcolm crept closer. The old man was asleep, his silver head bowed to his chest. He looked old – hollowed out, almost.
Malcolm crouched by the chair, feeling like a child again. Only now he wasn't sneaking towards the traditional brightly wrapped boxes stacked beneath the traditional butchered tree, instead he focussed on what he'd always tried to avoid.
When did you get old? When had the dark hair turned light, when had the iron strength faded into fragile weariness? He reached out tentatively to a stray lock of hair, smoothing it back into place while the owner slumbered.
He straightened, and his eye lit on the mantelpiece. A single picture drew his attention, one that shouldn't be there at all.
I thought you hated this. I thought you didn't even know. It was a picture of him – a promotional shot from before they shipped out. He looked so sober and serious; a caricature of the perfect officer he longed to be. Still, to see it here seemed out of place.
He heard a gasp behind him and spun, raising his finger to his lips in a request for silence.
"Malcolm?" His mother whispered, as though speaking would break some magical spell and send him spinning away. "How did…"
He stepped forward quickly and took her hands to lead her away to another room, where they wouldn't disturb his father. "I don't know, I can't stay…"
"For a while," she settled him at the kitchen table with a plate of shortbreads and began fussing with a kettle. "We haven't seen you for so long."
"You were moving." It was a poor excuse, they hadn't spent four years on the move – that had been him, trying to stay away. Finding a place called comfort, and being foolish enough to think that it could last.
"He's proud of you, you know. He always has been." His mother avoided the lie, and went straight for the feeling. "I know he hasn't always shown it…"
"No." Malcolm toyed with a spoon, anything to not look at her, and show her the hurt. But the picture on the mantelpiece said more than the Admiral had ever been able to. He just wished it were the other way around. "We're not that type."
"No, neither of you ever has been." His mother sighed, and sat down opposite, placing one of her hands over his. "You are so much alike. I've always wondered if it was a blessing, or a curse."
Definitely a curse. If not, why did he feel so out of place with his own family?
"Why didn't you come visit us?" It didn't sound like an accusation, just a sad request for information. As though somehow they'd failed in raising their son, and she wanted to know how she'd done it.
"I don't know." A lie… he knew a lot of the reasons. He'd been angry, he'd been resentful, but most of all, he'd been afraid. Afraid of the disapproval, afraid of the anger. Afraid of the wounds that would be opened when they discovered the truth: that they had failed, and they'd raised not a son, but a monster. I was just obeying my orders. Isn't that what the defendants at Nuremberg said? That the blame wasn't theirs, that it belonged to the man who issued those orders, and that they had simply done as they should?
He swallowed, focussing even more on the table. "Mother, I…"
"It's a terrible thing, what you've been through." She didn't let him finish, sensing as mothers somehow always managed to do that the territory he was heading into was one neither of them wanted to explore. "We probably can't even imagine."
He shook his head. No, they couldn't. No parent could imagine their son as a killer – be he soldier or slayer, desperate or depraved.
"He cried, you know. He cried when he heard where you were going, said it was a horrible thing for a father to know of his son."
Malcolm's head snapped up; she spoke the impossible. Stuart Reed didn't cry; the Admiral believed in unwavering control. He accepted no tears and gave none in return. "I…" he couldn't deny it, even as it had to be untrue. Generations of Reeds had gone bravely for King and Country, surely…
"He never wanted you to die. And yet he knew…"
"…that the odds were in favour." Malcolm finished. Other parents had perhaps been proud of the heroes they'd raised – Stuart knew too much of war to believe in heroes, only dead children. One ship against an armada? Against technology far greater than anything mankind had achieved? His father had been right to mourn, and to cry. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't…" he choked, the words unwilling to be made real.
"But you are now." She smiled and squeezed his hand tighter, then stood up to stop the kettle before it began to scream an alarm. Another tradition – no longer did tea require waits for water, yet his mother insisted on the old-fashioned ritual. This, however, was comfort – more than any soothing words could ever provide. She made the tea, and poured him a cup and he wrapped his fingers greedily around the delicate china, soaking in the heat. "And you have on your sweater."
"My…" he looked down, suddenly remembering. She'd sent it last year, he'd never bothered to thank her or even be grateful. He'd just put it on because it was there, and he was tired of the uniform and what it now meant. He'd forgotten where it came from, or what it might mean for her to see him in it. "Yes, thank you." He sipped at the tea and let himself savour it. He'd switched to coffee in Starfleet, because no matter how hard they tried, the machines never made it quite right. Like a re-sequenced steak, it always seemed off, but in no way he could identify. This was good, though. This was home.
A soft knock on the door interrupted them. His mother got up to answer it, and he moved to her side, wary of who would dare knock at this time of night.
Two figures stood on the doorstep, one nervous and one who seemed to be trying to hide her etched-in scowl.
"I'm sorry, Mother." He kissed her on the cheek, not wanting to leave her, but knowing that they'd take him anyway. "I have to go."
She nodded, understanding, but not wanting to. "Be careful."
"I will." He squeezed her hand, then let it go and stepped through the door. "Merry Christmas, and tell Dad…" he couldn't say it, even now.
"I will." She understood that, too. It had always been her role, relaying the words that neither one could speak. "Wait." She left for a moment then returned with a package, ribbons dripping off the sides. She handed it to him, with a small, sad smile. "Merry Christmas."
"You…"
"Go. You have to go… I'll tell him you were here." She pushed him onto the stoop and closed the door behind him, not letting him drag it out any longer.
He waited a moment before daring to speak. "Now would you mind telling me what the hell is going on here? I do not appreciate playing blind in your mad little game. That was my mother…"
"And she's probably a lot happier, having seen her son for Christmas." Jane headed off towards the street, clearly expecting Malcolm and Melvin to follow. "You should get home more often, you know. Families are much happier when they…"
"And how would you know?" Melvin spoke up suddenly, displaying a nasty side. "Ask her what her last name is. Go ahead."
"It's not important." She scanned the street and began busying herself with her gear again. "What's important is…"
"Oh?" Malcolm stepped forward and lifted the device from her fingers. He held it out of reach, and found himself enjoying it as her scowl deepened. "What would happen if…"
"I'll kill you." She pointed her weapon at him again, thumb poised to land on a trigger.
"I don't think so. It's not as easy as you think." He watched Melvin's eyes widen – apparently few people challenged Jane at all. He could use that. She wouldn't be expecting resistance.
She wavered slightly, doubting. He used the opportunity to grab her wrist and dig his thumb into one of the pressure points. Her fingers splayed automatically, and she dropped the weapon to the ground.
"If you're going to shoot, shoot. Otherwise, don't take it out at all." He scooped the weapon up and put it in his pocket. "Now let's try this again, little girl. Who are you?"
"I told you." She tried to get away, but couldn't break his grip. "My name is Jane."
"That is so nice, and so non-descript. And it doesn't answer my question."
"Fuck you." She clawed at his hand, but he didn't budge.
"Like I said, you're a little young. If I were turning you over my knee it would be because you need a good spanking, something I doubt your father ever did."
Now she slapped him, hard across the face. "That is disgusting."
"Really? I guess you're not the tough person you're pretending to be." Hard to pretend sophistication with reactions like that. He let her go and turned away, ignoring her. He knew how to handle this. It was so simple really.
"Daniels." She spit it out, like the word had gone rotten. "Jane Daniels."
Bingo. "Daddy's little girl, then?" He took a stab at something else. "I bet you're not even a real temporal agent."
She growled, and he knew he'd hit the target. Something else occurred to him, and he turned to Melvin.
"What do you get out of this? Was she nice to you in exchange for access? Pretend to be your friend so you would break the law…"
"Shut up!" She screamed and lashed out again, this time with claws. He sidestepped easily, and imprisoned her wrist again.
"Not very nice, Jane." He hated having to break the truth to Melvin, but as a fellow mis-fit, Melvin probably already knew. But we do it anyway, because we'll take what little we can get. Nice to know that after a few centuries, humanity didn't change much. "Now. What are you up to with this little stunt of yours?"
"Insurance." It was Melvin who answered, surprisingly. "We can't tell you all the details, or it won't work."
Malcolm turned to Jane and raised his eyebrows, and she nodded. "But we have to go now, they won't be that far behind."
He handed her the travel device and let her punch in the code. This time he was ready for it, closing his eyes to avoid the distortion.
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. This shouldn't have happened."
He opened his eyes. Daniels held Jane by the arm, and he didn't look happy at all. Melvin stood with his eyes still closed, shaking.
"Well it did." Looking at them, something didn't seem right. Daniels held her a little too tightly, he could see the dents where the agent's fingers dug into flesh. And Jane's face… he'd seen that face before too, staring back in the mirror as he contemplated running away, while locked in confinement. He knew all too well the set of the jaw, designed to keep the words in and the tears from flowing. There was a word for that look, and that word was fear. "Where are we?"
"More appropriate would be when are we?" Daniels responded. His tone made it clear that the question was rhetorical. He probably knew down to the second.
"Christmas Yet-To-Come." Malcolm supplied the answer before Daniels could. It didn't matter if it really was Christmas, it was as close an answer as Malcolm needed. So this was the future, was it? Where parents still alienated children by confusing love with control. So this was what Melvin meant by Jane not knowing what a happy family was. And where Jane learned to manipulate people, because the powerless crave power, because she was desperate to escape her own world of pain. Because my father does it to me, that means it's how the world works. He'd believed that. She believed it too. No wonder Archer distrusted Daniels – he had a good instinct for when he was being played, and to Daniels, Malcolm saw now, manipulation was second-nature. The ends justified the means – no, humanity hadn't changed that much at all.
"Christmas?" Daniels looked confused. "There's no more Christmas. When you consider how little of the universe actually believes in gods, let alone them taking human or humanoid form, it hardly seems fair to inflict it on them."
Malcolm tuned him out, thinking of the men who died, fighting wars against those who would take such a simple thing away. You couldn't force it on anybody, but that didn't mean you had to abandon it either. He stared down at the brightly wrapped package in his hand, a present from a mother who knew she wouldn't see her son, but who took it on faith that somehow she would, and that he wouldn't be left out. He thought of the men he'd lost, and how they – like Mackenzie, Foster, Campbell, Norman and Krzyzaniak – died to protect humanity's fundamental right to exist, and believe what they wanted to. The diversity, the choice. Eliminating the option because the majority didn't believe – what would go next? What had already gone? Did anyone believe in anything anymore?
At least one person did. He saw it in her eyes now – the absolute and utter defeat and pain. She'd failed and been caught, and now she dreaded the outcome. Not just for her, but for the universe in general.
And he knew the frustration she felt, what it was like to believe in something, and for no one else to be able to see it. To be not Jane, the unknown, but Cassandra, the unheeded. I was her, once. He'd had a dream, and followed it. It hadn't led where he'd expected, but would he change it? From here on in, perhaps, but from there on back? Would he miss not being who he was?
"No Christmas…" he murmured. The present gleamed back at him, in this ungiving future. He thought of his mother, with her tea and shortbread, and his father asleep by the fire – the picture of his son displayed proudly above it. He thought about Catherwood and Greggs, and the rest of his men. Then something else from Heller, on principle. His hand went to his pocket.
"Maybe there should be." He looked up suddenly and pulled out the weapon, firing as soon as he had an aim. Daniels screamed and dropped, Malcolm caught the temporal device before it hit the floor, and tossed it to the suddenly stunned Jane.
"Do something! Get us out of here before we get company."
She couldn't move. It was Melvin who snatched the contraption from her fingers and pressed in a target code. Reality swam once more…
It was cold. Bitter snow swirled around him, and even the heavy sweater wasn't enough to keep it out. He was alone again, in a narrow, trash filled alleyway, but the parcel was still in his hand.
He opened it, wondering what she'd thought he might need – this son she barely knew. The paper tore away easily, bits of bright colour dancing for a moment in the wind, then disappearing. It revealed heavy dark cloth that unfolded into a large overcoat – useless in the confines of a starship, but in this here and this now, an unexpected but wholly welcome blessing. He put it on and stuffed the rest of the paper into his pocket, then looked around. The air smelled of smoke and manure, and various other scents he couldn't quite place. He stepped to the mouth of the alley, and stared at the street. The explanation for the smells became obvious – there were no cars, just the hurried rushing of people through the uncleared streets, dodging the horses that bore down on them, laden carriages pushing from behind.
But at least it was England – he could understand the shouts, and best of all he could see what you could always find if you looked hard enough. Tavern, pub, alehouse – whatever the name, it was a place for people with no other place, to sit and be warm, and to wait. He found himself a place inside.
"May I join you?"
He looked up into a face that he thought he should know, though this person was a stranger to him. A face from a history book, perhaps, lost in the spaces of time.
"I'm not buying," Malcolm warned. "I have no money for it."
The stranger knit his brow, looking at the brand new clothing of quality he'd probably never seen before. A man with good clothes and no money had to be a new one to him.
"I'll buy the drinks, and you can pay me with a story." The man sat down, obviously intrigued.
"You'd never believe it." Malcolm wasn't so sure he believed it himself.
"Tell it to me, and we'll see." The stranger wasn't going to be swayed, clearly he wanted an explanation for this strange turn of events.
Malcolm started slowly, with the darkness and the brooding – with the ghosts of his friends haunting his room and his mood. One drink became many, as he mentioned how Jane had slipped through the wall, and started his journey through Christmases past, present, and uncertain future. A story of bravery in the face of death, and a family that wanted to be close, but couldn't get past the rules of engagement. When he was done, he looked up and saw Melvin gesturing through the window.
"I have to go." He stood a little unsteadily, and shook his head to clear it. "But, Merry Christmas." He found the door and managed to open it – the shock of cold air helped some.
"Come on." Melvin took his arm and steered him towards another alleyway. "We've got to get moving again."
"We?" Malcolm looked at him muzzily. "You're staying with Jane?"
"She needs somebody." Melvin explained. "And we're both wanted. You know, her father is liable to kill you."
"Let him try." Right now Malcolm didn't care about Daniels. All he wanted was to go home – not to his parents' home, but to Enterprise. Home-home, with his friends and neo-family. He was drunk, but he was tired, too. It had been a long night, and he needed some rest. "Jus' send me home. I wanna go back to bed."
(s)
The writer stared after the strange man with the even stranger tale, watching as he weaved his way out the doors to where his companion waited. The man had been right – the tale was unbelievable, fantastic, even. Yet there was something compelling about it, and his publishers were waiting. One Christmas Eve, a man is visited by spirits, who take him to Christmases past and future. He'd have to change some things, of course… he could never tell the story he'd just heard. But the basic tale was there. And what was it the stranger said, just before he left? 'Rise above principle, and do what's right?' Not a writer's phrase, he'd have to work with it, but the idea.
He'd make him an old man, for there'd been a sense of the old about this stranger – not in his face, but in his eyes, like someone who'd seen too much of life. Old and rich, with no money to spare, and less cheer than that. Visited first by the ghosts of his friends… no make that friend, for a man like that would have no more than one. And it would need other details, of course, to dramatise it, and make it palatable to the reading public. And a message… a strong message about charity to one's fellow man. After all, didn't he say something about understanding now, the true meaning of Christmas? A fantastic story, yes, but one that just might work.
(s)
Malcolm woke to the mother of all hangovers, trying to remember how he got it. Brandy had been involved at the beginning, though he couldn't remember drinking much of it. It had to be the pints, and bad whiskey from…
He sat up and regretted it, his stomach and brain moving in opposite directions, and neither one of them in sync with the floor.
He staggered out into the hallway, ignoring the strange looks from his shipmates. Maybe it was his clothes – though where his coat had gone, he had no clue, maybe Jane or Melvin had hung it in the closet. He made his way carefully to sickbay, only to find it abandoned.
He headed for the mess-hall, if he couldn't have medicine, then food might help. He might have had plenty to drink, but his only food had been a half of a shortbread – he wondered if his mother had still had it: the evidence of an impossible visit, a Christmas miracle. But he needed more than that – his stomach growled in confirmation of the thought.
As the doors opened, he stopped and blinked. The mess hall had been transformed – there was far more room to sit, and people crowded in, elbow to elbow. A buffet decorated the far wall, containing more food than an army could consume in a week.
"Trip talked Chef into doing something." Malcolm turned to see Captain Archer standing beside him, looking a little embarrassed. "He said after last year, he really needed something, and thought everybody else did too."
Malcolm looked around at the people laughing and eating. Happy and alive, not letting the ghosts trap them and chain them down. He saw Trip joking with Hoshi and Travis by the buffet table, then turning to explain something to Phlox who seemed fascinated by the whole affair. The noise of it all did nothing for his headache, but he couldn't bring himself to be miserable about it.
"So what do you think?" Archer himself seemed uncertain, as though belief was a struggle for him too, and Christmas also just another day on the calendar.
And it was, but only if you remembered to hold onto it for the rest of the year. And when you didn't… they had Veterans Days, and Memorial Days – why not a day to remind you about what was really important? Not presents, but the present. The place where you lived, and you had the power to decide what it would be. Good or bad, it was up to you. The past and future were out of your hands, but you always had the present. You could hide, or you could join the festivities – that was it, that was life. Malcolm sighed, and watched the crowd. Good people, all of them. "I say…" The words were perfect, even if they had been said before. "I say, 'God bless us, every one.'"