The Atlantis Christmas tradition of alcohol and not much else seems to have taken hold, because the following year they find themselves all in much the same place in the control room with cups in their hands.
The same stories get told in a slightly different order. He knows Elizabeth a little better this year, knows that she's from Michigan and that she took dance lessons for twelve years and that her father is a footnote in one of the college football history tomes that's still sitting in his mother's house. She still doesn't offer a complete Weir family Christmas story, but she chimes in with a wistful "we do that too" when someone else mentions a yearly family snowball fight. Boys against girls.
One of the scientists, a geologist from Alabama, initiates the caroling, and after enough pints of indeterminate alien brew, others join in. John knows the first verse to most of the songs, especially the ones that get most overplayed in department stores, but he doesn't plan to sing them. Elizabeth sees right through his insistence that he has forgotten the words to Jingle Bells and chastises him with a gentle glare until he obligingly mumbles along.
Even if it sounds awful, it's better than silence. When they are all together like this -- and nearly everyone is there, regardless of their religious affiliation, since this is more about community than faith -- it is obvious how many have been lost during the year.
"We should invite the Athosians next year," John suggests during a break in their off-key harmonizing.
Elizabeth smiles -- not a smile of happiness, but one of common understanding. "Remind me," she says softly.
He slips his hand around one of hers out of comfort or drunkenness or loneliness as the others begin to cycle back through their limited holiday repertoire. She doesn't squeeze his hand or even look at him, but she holds on through the rest of Silent Night.
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