December 6: Away in the Attic

Pairing: Sybil/Tom

Rating: K+ for way too much laughing while writing this.

About four large ornament crates down, two hundred more large boxes and ten thousand smaller ones to go. Sybil was having a hard time realizing that it might take them centuries to sort everything.

Even so, they had made noticeable progress. For the past two days, she and Tom had secluded themselves within the top floor rooms of the Abbey, pulling out ornaments and decorations of all shapes and sizes and ranging in taste from pretty nice to garish. They had put the chipped or cracked ornaments in bubble-wrap lined rubbish bags, and though they had already filled about ten with anything that looked either too ancient to handle, decrepit, or (Sybil's plan of action) remotely ugly. They were opening up any crates labels 'tree ornaments' since the tree would be arriving in a few days and they wanted the ornaments to be sorted through as quickly as possible.

Which meant that the Santa Claus statue that was terrorizing the dark corners of Sybil's wild imagination was still hidden somewhere, perhaps waiting to strike with lethal force. Sybil always wanted Tom in her sight to ensure that, to avoid cliché slasher film plots, he would not be the statue's first victim of the season.

"Do you always use all of this stuff in decorating your house?" Tom asked.

"Not everything at once," Sybil replied. "It takes a long time to decorate, so sometimes we don't even open certain boxes."

"I don't think some of these were opened since the beginning of the last century," quipped Tom. "When is Gwen going to get here?" he added.

"Not until after twelve," Sybil said.

"Maybe if we find evil St. Nick today we can show it to her," Tom joked, smiling devilishly.

"Shut up, Tom," Sybil groaned. "It's a serious matter. When we started finding boxes with figurines and such, we'll need to be on guard."

"Right. And we'll also need to remember to surround those boxes with salt."

Thunk.

Sybil jumped at the low, hard noise. Her eyes darted violently around the attic. "Oh God, what was that?" she screeched. "Is it you? I swear, is it – ?"

"Sybil, calm down," Tom said. "One of the tall boxes fell over."

"Fell? Or something knocked it over, perhaps?" Sybil noted.

"Sybil, are you really afraid that a Santa statue is going to murder you?" Tom asked.

"Well … yes," Sybil admitted sheepishly.

Tom smiled at her, shaking his head. "Sybil, even if it did want to kill you, you're twice as big as you were when you were seven. You also have me, so it would have to go through me before it tries anything funny on you."

"Just as well I have you as my knight in shining armour," Sybil replied, smacking Tom playfully on the shoulder. "C'mon, we've got work to do."

The morning was spent doing the usual drudgery and labor that had dictated their days for the past week. Yet as the worked through the many crates and inspected each ornament, big or small, they talked about whatever came to mind: memories of Christmas past, the tales that Tom's mum used to tell him of spirits that came alive during the winter, Sybil's own stories of different ornaments and how the family had attained them. They laughed together while Sybil's phone played Christmas songs from a radio app, sometimes singing along with the sillier ones. To Sybil, she had never been able to act as childish in front of her family in a long time: Mary always called her immature, and Edith simply looked at her as if she ought to be in a nineteenth-century mental hospital. Sybil was perfectly capable of acting serious and mature, but what fun was Christmas if one couldn't regress to a childlike-state of mind, or laugh about whatever came to mind? That was why Sybil loved Christmas as a little girl: life was never too complicated, and when she saw the decorations being put up or tasting the seasonal treats that the cook concocted, she felt happier than she did any other time of the year. Except for the year that she had been targeted by the demon Santa, Sybil had few bad memories that came to mind when she thought of Christmas (and it was usually her older sisters' fault).

Around noon, they were joined in the attic by Gwen and Mrs Hughes, the housekeeper. Mrs Hughes, who Sybil believe did not have a stingy bone in her body, had brought up a full lunch for all of them, and as they ate, Sybil and Tom briefed Gwen on what they had already done so far, and what to with the broken ornaments, so on and so forth.

"And if you see a troll-faced Santa statue, holler and run for your life." Tom cracked himself up as Sybil glared at him.

"What?" Gwen stared at the two of them as if they were monkeys.

"I'll explain later," Sybil concluded, swatting Tom upside the head.

They all set off to work, and with the three of them the work seemed to go through a lot faster. Gwen was a nimble worker, and she did not need to take more than a few seconds to determine the state of an ornament. There was still chatter among them, but now that Gwen had joined the party, the conversation between Sybil and Tom was less personal. Gwen was well aware that Sybil and Tom were a secret couple, but she never pried into their lives; she wasn't one for knowing other people's secrets. Which Sybil considered to be an asset that her parents sorely needed if they wanted to stay on good terms with her.

Miraculously, they managed to get through most, if not all, the crates containing the tree ornaments. They had filled about fifteen rubbish bags with discarded ornaments, and Sybil estimated she had dropped at least two trouser sizes just from delivering the bags down three stories, then running back up again, doing that over again about five times. By the time she reached the attic the last time, Sybil desperately wanted a lift to be installed inside the house.

"I suppose that's my exercise for the week," Gwen said, lying down on the attic floor next to Sybil. Tom reappeared after transporting the last bag downstairs, and he stood over the two of them.

"You both look like snow angels, all spread out like that," he remarked. Sybil giggled.

"When is it going to snow, anyway?" Gwen asked. "Isn't it a little late this year?"

"That's global warming for you," Tom said. "But when we do get snow, it will probably look like a winter wasteland instead of a wonderland."

"Like near the end of Frozen, probably," Sybil added. "Only we'd have to wait for it all to melt instead of having someone just zap it away."

"That is the case, since your sister the ice queen is in America," commented Tom.

Sybil doubled over with laughter. She hated it when Tom made her laugh uncontrollably; she knew how ludicrous her horse laugh sounded, and she was well aware of the redness in her cheeks.

Creak.

"What was that?" Gwen wondered aloud.

"What? That sound?" Tom asked.

"It's someone moving downstairs, probably," Sybil shrugged. "This house is so old it's a wonder no one has gone crashing through the floorboards."

"Well, it's awfully loud if it is someone moving downstairs," Gwen said. "Tom, didn't you close the door by the stairs.

"Yeah," Tom said slowly, "but …"

Creak.

"There's no one else up here, is there?" Sybil asked.

"No, I don't think so," Tom answered. Gwen nodded her head in agreement.

Sybil froze from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

"Sybil, you don't really think — " Tom started.

"It's the demon Santa," Sybil whispered raspily.

"What is this 'demon Santa?'" Gwen asked. "You said it was a statue, Tom. Why's Sybil going into shock?"

"Long story, short version: ugly Santa statue tries to kill Sybil at age seven and make it look like an accident," Tom said breathlessly.

Gwen gaped at Tom. "Are you mental?"

Creak. Creak creak creak.

"It's coming closer," Sybil said, trembling.

Creak creak creak.

"Sybil, I'm really sorry about this —"

"Tom, what is it?"

"I don't have my pocket knife with me."

Creak.

"You don't?"

"And I don't have the salt either."

Creak.

"You're a bloody idiot!"

"Will the two of you shut up, for God's sake!" Gwen hushed.

Creak creak creak. Creak creak creak.

"Sybil, my arm is going to break if you don't let go."

"Tom!"

Creak.

"Woof."

Isis popped her head up above a cardboard box, tongue hanging lazily. Seeing the three terrified humans huddled together, she leaped over some of the boxes and bounded towards them, jumping on top of Gwen and smothering her liberally with dog kisses.

"Isis! You evil dog!" cried Sybil. Isis cocked her head to the side: she wasn't used to being yelled at by Sybil.

"Easy, easy," Tom said, gently touching her shoulder. Isis padded over to Tom, sniffed his hand, and let herself be scratched behind the ears.

"She must have came up here when we were bringing the ornament bags down," Gwen said.

"You silly dog," Tom crooned, smiling down at the dog. "Where's your papa, huh? Let's go down and find him."

Isis barked in agreement, then followed Tom downstairs.

"That's it. Isis is not getting anything from me this year," Sybil decided.

AN: I'm sorry. I had to. Isis scaring Sybil half to death, followed by some Tom/Isis. I was giggling to myself while I was writing this.