It's December 22nd, 2012. A very small fraction of the world waits with bated breath, in bunkers and basements, and an aging pair of them, curled together in their small cabin in Nova Scotia. They sleep the breathless sleep of a city under seige, a mere handful scattered across the planet.
It's December 23rd, 2012. His first thought, humourlessly, is that the aliens slept in and forgot to start the invasion on time. It's six o'clock in the morning, and he prays for the first time in years, watching the sleeping face of the woman he can't quite bear to misname with marriage.
Then it's noon, and his eyes flit open again with a start, to see her looking back at him. She's as confused as he is, apparently, her cool, clear eyes broadcasting to him. Maybe it hasn't reached Canada yet, they think in tandem, both rising without words to go to the small, staticky television set. She turns the channel to CNN and curls up on the couch. His embrace is not long in coming, the both of them holding their breaths as they watch a human interest story about a dog in Maine who was pulled from a flooding river. A story about the violence in the Middle East. A story about poverty in Sudan. A story about a corrupt Senator, a face that makes them both flinch and think gladly back upon their departure from the States.
It is, they realise with a start, a slow news day. They look at one another, too surprised to be really happy, too wound-up to relax without the burden of the invasion hanging over their heads. Finally, she lets slip a sliver of a smile, and then he does, too, and soon they're rolling around on the couch laughing in relief, and when their eyes catch and hold it's clear that they've both been weeping with the sheer force of it. It's over without ever having begun. There is no invasion.
December 24th, 2012. Christmas Eve. There is peace on Earth. Sure, mankind is still killing itself slowly, but at least there are no aliens coming in to do the job for them. For the first time in years, he has hope for the future.
Far to the South, in the American deserts, cautious families are emerging from deeply-buried boltholes, squinting at their first glimpse of the setting sun in weeks. They, too, are slow to catch on, but as always, it's the children who realise it first. That they're free of whatever terrible weight has been resting on their parents' shoulders for years and years now. That they will have lives.
Across an ocean and a continent, where the cold is now biting more than ever, fur-wrapped diplomats push the snow away from the ground from beneath, staring with disbelief up at the starlight and the empty sky. There is almost a sense of disappointment here, that the cure they were finally able to synthesize is not going to be necessary. It doesn't last. In his sudden rush of joy, the American ambassador throws a snowball at the Russian president. There is a brief moment of horror, his life flashing before his eyes in tiny increments, before he is pelted on all sides with similar projectiles. Relief has rendered even wicked men childlike.
It's December 25th, 2012, the Christmas that those in the know had known would never come. It's here, and the only unidentified flying objects in the sky have antlers. An aging pair of lovers are curled by a dying fire in their cabin, staring into the flames in silence. Whether through their actions, or through some other far-off obligation of the invaders, the invasion never took place. The Earth, while not exactly safe, has dodged the proverbial bullet for the time being. Mankind has a second chance.