for my new year's resolution, I've decided to just post all the random bits of fic that I've accumulated for this series. Less anxiety over coherence, more fic!
With that in mind, here's a belated and rather twisted Christmas ficlet. Set in 1987, in Mission City but before all the crazy shenanigans start.
"You don't look happy enough for Christmas," Becky says, as the taxi driver beats a hasty retreat into the cafe. "Cheer up, what is it?"
Jack shrugs, groans a little as he strips out of his soaking wet coat. "Fare for my sins. Your uncle's over at the Jerico place, which means yours truly is gonna have to go back out there at some point to retrieve him. Bet it starts to snow instead of just raining."
"Oh- you've got to be kidding," Becky says, looking at the gritty scarf Jack's hung on the hatstand. She quickly removes it to the tablecloth laundry hamper, for a good wash later. "On Christmas Eve, what does he think he's doing? I've been waiting for him to get off the counter all day."
"Free dinner," Jack says succinctly, pulling off his boots. "Dear old Ralph is down in Minneapolis, with a promise to be back in time for brunch tomorrow. So if you're a neglected little trophy wife, feeling lonely around the holidays, maybe you invite your ex around for a cherry liqueur and see which way the wind's blowing-"
Becky winces. "He doesn't have to be doing this."
"Sure, but- you know Mac. He's a sucker for riding to the rescue, probably figures she needs him more right now," Jack says softly. "After all, we know how we're spending tomorrow, right?"
"That's true," Becky agrees, absently hugging him. "All safe and warm and together. Real cosy."
"And with any luck, maybe he can sneak out a bottle for me," Jack says wistfully. "Been ages since I treated myself to the good stuff- I mean, sure a guy can live on beer alone, but you ever seen Jerico's liquor cabinet? Sixty year old whiskey, real champagne, the works. If he swipes me a decent tequila, I'll forgive him just about anything."
Becky thinks about the present hidden at the back of the upstairs closet, and has to work hard at not snickering. "Even if he's...um..."
"Even if he's um," Jack agrees. "Not like I can charge over and lay any claim on him, you know?"
His voice is starting to wobble a little- the line between joke and truth is wearing thin, now- and it's obvious they both need a distraction. "And getting out of all the work, too! Shame on Unc."
"Why? Thought you pretty much had it under control by now."
"Oh, so? I need somebody to taste-test the stuffing. And the puddings. And who's gonna help me roll out the gingerbread and decorate it?" Becky asks, a mock-quiver in her lips.
"...I'll be right there."
That's the nicest thing about Jack, Becky reflects. It's always so easy to cheer him up.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
"It caught fire," Ellen announces, peering into the oven. "So much for my casserole."
So much for the stolid, virtuous exterior he'd been trying to keep up. Mac starts to giggle, leaning awkwardly against the expensive marble countertop.
"Just like old times again. You trying to put on a culinary tour-de-force and fluffing it all up- how come Ralph can't fork out for you to get some lessons in this stuff, huh? How- how not to boil water, and all that."
At her glare, he gives up and starts outright laughing.
"In my defense, I'm drunk." A lot more drunk than he should be after one glass, but the brandy she's given him is a surprisingly potent vintage. And as Jack says, he's useless at holding his liquor anyway. "Drunk enough that I shouldn't be driving home, that's for sure."
In his current state of inebriation, the joke strikes him as manifestly hilarious. Ellen glares at him again as she slams the oven shut; but the touch of her fingers, as she takes his arm, is soft and pleasantly womanly.
"You need to lie down," he hears, her voice seemingly coming from somewhere very far off. "Come on- come on. It'll be all right."
He lets her guide him, blindly (it seems easier to move when he's not looking), so feels a certain relief when he bumps into something. Feels a certain distant alarm at the realisation that it's a bed, wide and luxurious and decidedly not meant for the likes of a broke, small-town barista.
"There now," she says approvingly, trying to unzip his coat. He whimpers in alarm, falls atop of it defensively. It's one of the most expensive things he owns, an old present from Jack, and he's protective about it at the best of times.
She hisses at him and starts pulling off his boots instead. That seems all right.
"You're not in much shape to do anything right now, are you?" her voice asks. A little clinical (god help them both, why did she always have to be so stiff?) "I didn't think you'd be getting to this state until much later in the evening."
Clarity breaks over his head like a bucket of icy water. "Until? Ellen, what'd you have in mind?"
"It'll be okay," she murmurs. "Tonight, everything will be all right. You don't have to be lonely."
He wants to reassure her, despite everything, and so is pleased when he finds himself sitting up properly, looking down at her.
Only it's not his Ellen, not the grey-clothed woman who he expects. The girl sitting in front of him is only a child.
"I'd rather be lonely," she's saying, a determined pout in her voice, and the memory snaps into place; this is the old Stuart homestead, this is the Christmas when she locked herself in the attic and wouldn't come out for any entreaties.
This happened. Is happening.
"Ellen," he says, confused by the clear, calm nature of his voice, unbroken and unslurred by drink. "Don't do this to yourself, okay?"
"I'm already going to be punished for doing this," she says, tucking herself close. "Dad asked me what I wanted for Christmas- this is what I want, okay? Just to be me. Just to be here, quiet, and not to have to listen to any of those boors he's friends with, or pretend or anything."
"I could go down and say you want him to get rid of everybody else." That, he can understand. Wanting family selfishly, his mother all to him and Allison instead of waiting on half the town, that makes sense.
She sticks out her tongue; an odd gesture on her face, because she doesn't seem to be quite sure how to do it. "That'd be worse."
Now she just isn't making any sense at all. He kneels down next to her, tries to be as comforting as he knows how. "Do you want to come to my house for Christmas? I guess they wouldn't mind, if it makes you happier."
"I want- I want," she says, and starts to sob, big tears welling up against the sleeve of his sweater. "I don't mind you. If you were here, it'd be okay. Or if we ran away together. Or if we both just weren't, that'd be nice too-"
"C'mon, Ellen, don't talk crazy." He remembers how this ended; how he promised her his best knife, and a date out skating next Friday, if only she'd stop crying, go downstairs, tell them that she was herself again; and Ellen, after whispering that she was so tired of pretending, had finally agreed to do so. He remembers the deep quiver of Mr Stuart's mustache, while he'd firmly told an adult twice his size to be nicer to his daughter, and the bewildered nod of agreement he'd received in return.
"I want you back," Ellen is saying, close to tears; and he'd reach a hand out to touch her but it feels like the whole world might flip upside down if he even tries. There's a hollowness in his head and belly that hardly seems attributable to a few alcoholic ounces- what's happening to him, what's wrong...
Suppose you just weren't here...
He supposes; and the supposition is as easy as anything; suddenly he's light as air.
Ghostly, eased of all his burdens, he floats up. Out of the house, above Mission City, with a fair wind blowing and who know what waiting for him on the horizon- free at last.
Except for one little tie, thin as cobweb but oh so binding, and his frustrated tug at it is useless, unavailing. He follows it down to the source, intent on snipping the cord away.
Here's a trailer park, subdued for all the tacky ornamentation and festive lights strewn helter-skelter across the way. It takes no thought at all to find the one with the taxi parked out front, and a brave, slightly pathetic hand-made wreath tacked to the front; he floats inside without a second thought.
Becky's hardly visible; her body's buried beneath a mound of blankets, her face pressed into Jack's tacky little sofa. A few soft moans, of pain and sadness, are all that indicate she's even breathing.
Jack, by contrast, is all too visible; wan, with a harried look in his eyes, and his beloved flight jacket hanging off him. "Becky, want to help me with this? It's almost time to add the sugar sauce."
Another moan by way of response. Jack sighs as he closes the oven, sits down on the cheap metal chair he's crammed in next to the sofa. "At the very least, I'm going to need somebody to help me eat all this Christmas pastrami."
"Eat it yourself," Becky mumbles, not moving. "I bet you're hungry enough."
From the strained expression on Jack's face, she's probably right; he licks his lips, swallows. "Look. I know this is a hard time of year for you-"
"Awful things happen to anybody who loves me," Becky says, raising her head for the first time; there's tear tracks on her face, but restraint in her tone. "First my whole family, and then Unc- Jack, what's going to happen to you?"
"I'm not going to leave you like your uncle did," Jack says, with so much disgust in his tone that Becky slaps him. He lets her.
She starts crying again, her head against his shoulder, "I miss him. I miss him so much."
"So do I. Which is just one more reason why I'm not going anywhere, Becky, you understand that? That's a promise."
"Suppose a sixteen-wheeler bumps into you one of these days?"
"Then you will know," Jack says, very quietly, "that I did my damnedest to fight my way back home for you. Besides, remember what I do for a living? Chances are pretty good I walk away from any crash, even if I caused it myself."
Becky lets out a half-chuckle, shoves off some of the blankets. "He was just the perfect uncle though, you know? Sweet, and interested in everything that I was interested in, and good at fixing anything up to and including a broken heart- I just doted on him so much. He made up for losing everything, and- and now that he's gone, I just don't know if I've got it in me to even try again. I really don't."
"You know what the terrible thing is about grief?" Jack asks, gazing up at the ceiling.
"What?"
"You get over it. One of these days you will- I know it doesn't feel like that, but you will. You'll want things again, you'll need them, and it will be okay- as long as you don't feel bad about it," Jack says. "It's okay to grieve, Beck, as long as you need to. But don't guilt yourself into feeling bad because you think you ought to. That kind of hurting won't do you any good at all."
"...I guess you're right," Becky says, sniffing. "But I still miss him so much."
"I know."
"And it's not like I'm doing you much good," she says eventually. "Hogging space in here, and making a nuisance of myself, and everything."
"Eh, this place was pretty messy even before you got here," Jack says lightly. "Don't worry about any of that, okay? Now. Brown sugar sauce, and then I think we give the ham another twenty minutes."
She smiles a little wanly, but gets up, pours out the sludgy brown sauce while Jack steadies the pan.
"I guess things could always be worse-"
The pounding on the door takes them both off-guard; Jack opens the door calmly enough, but almost crumples at the sight.
"Hello, Ellen," he says, voice hardly above a whisper.
Ellen is looking well; her face freshly made-up, thick mink wrapped around her neck. "Hello, Becky. I've come to take you home."
Becky dives back into her blanket cocoon, furious. "I am home."
"Somewhere you'll be taken care of properly," Ellen offers. "Not this place, a real house where you can have your own room and everything. Becky, your uncle should never have done that to you, but I've come to make it up to you. As much as I can."
"You can't," Becky says, stubbornly. "Unc always hated you anyway, and maybe he was dumb about a lot of stuff, but I just bet he was right there. Anyway, Jack's taking care of me. And he loves me, which is more than you would."
"We rushed the court guardianship papers," Ellen says to Jack. "Just in time for a Christmas miracle. Tell her she's coming with me."
Jack bows his head, looking utterly defeated. "See, I can't. I made a promise to this kid, okay? That I'd look after her whatever it took- so if you think I'm just going to roll over and let you walk out with her, you'll have another think coming."
"Yay," Becky murmurs, hugging him.
"Carrot or stick, Dalton, it's your choice," Ellen says with exasperation. "I'll give you a payoff to get out of town, conditional on your leaving tonight. Otherwise we'll call in the police and you can spend Christmas day in jail instead. So think twice before you do anything stupid."
Jack mutters something, quietly enough for it to be drowned out by a cavernous rumbling from under his jacket. Ellen leans forward, amused. "You said what?"
"I said no," Jack says, blushing hotly. "Her parents aren't here for her, her uncle sure isn't- so I guess it's just me. And if you lock me up, you lock me up, but I want her to know- I want you to know for sure, Becky, that I'll be fighting for you if nobody else will. You deserve that, believe it. Believe me, please."
"I will," Becky says, and lets a long and thoughtful pause go by before adding, "Unc."
"How dare you," Ellen snaps, with all the loathing of a cheated mother, and the look she turns on Jack is so malicious, so entirely cruel and self-centered, that the very injustice of it jolts Mac out of his complacency, passive observer, brings him screeching back to earth-
he is in a bed, very drunk, with his ex perched eagerly over him.
"Only I'm so lonely," Ellen says, and waits eagerly for his reply.
Somewhere in the back of his head there's still a calm, rational part of him that knows what sense is, and that part's enticed by this situation. If that part was in charge, anything might happen.
But it's not. His body's running on instinct at this point, and instinct right now means exhaustion and giddiness and a numbed inability to disentangle this Ellen, the one in front of him, from the one who was just giving him nightmares. "I'm gonna throw up."
He doesn't, actually, but the sight of him retching into her designer wastepaper basket seems to turn her off but good. She watches with complete dismay, revulsion even.
(A glass of water would have been nice. Jack would have brought him a glass of water.)
Once he's got himself under something like control again, he leans over and starts putting his boots on. "Can I borrow your phone? Only I think I'd better call a cab."
"Downstairs by the French windows," Ellen says; and doesn't bother even following him to the door.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
"You brought me tequila!"
"I promised, didn't I?" Mac says; and finds himself smiling as Jack helps him into the cab. At least somebody got something good out of this.
"I'm kinda surprised, to be honest. You look terrible."
"Mmm. Drunk. Also pretty hungry."
"Bad combination," Jack says sagely. "I had a hunch she wouldn't feed you. Becky's kept some dinner hot."
"I thought she'd be in bed by now."
"I let her stay up. Christmas Eve and all that, you know? And she said she didn't want to go to bed till you came home."
"I might not have," Mac murmurs; and Jack chuckles.
"Beck knows you better than that. Try to freshen up, all right? It's one thing rolling in looking like hell warmed over, but you can at least straighten your hair a bit."
"Maybe I like messy hair," he counters; but finger-combs it a bit in the mirror. He's feeling better now; the fresh smell of air after rain is doing a lot to calm him down. No snow for Christmas, probably; but still, things could be worse. Things could always be worse.
"Suppose anything happened to me, would you look after Becky for me?"
"Weird question," Jack says. "Why would Becky want to be looked after by me? But if she did- yeah, in a heartbeat. You know that perfectly well, Mac- or you do when you're not drunk."
"Thanks," Mac says, and slumps over. Jack clicks his tongue.
"And don't fall asleep on the driver, okay...okay, guess he's not listening. Oh well. Good thing Becky is awake," he adds, to the unconscious barista. "You think I'd want to carry you into the house all by myself? No way."
He says it quietly, though. The cheerful relief on Mac's face suggests a dream too good to wake him from; a lot better than he'd looked after stumbling out of the Jerico place, that's for sure. By Christmas this'll be no more than a bad dream and a hangover.
(And he gets Mac to himself, for a little longer anyway. Hah!)
"Merry Christmas, amigo," Jack murmurs, and turns the scratchy car radio to full ("Hark the Herald Angels Sing), as he revs up the cab towards Becky and home.