Since I'm home for the holidays, I've got a lot of time to post the chapters from the days that I missed. So, hopefully lots of updates. And I will be going back to edit the other chapters, so feel free to go back and reread some sections.

Also, I love Frozen, so I've snuck in some references (because no matter what the trolls say, that movie was beautiful. Let it go, let it goooo... alright, I'll stop. I'm a wretched singer).

December 16: Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?

Pairing: Sybil/Tom

Rating: K+ for language on Tom's part, and a possible threat from a demonic Santa statue...

"Sybil, that is the weirdest snowman I have ever seen in my entire life," Tom said. "Who is that supposed to be?"

Sybil looked at her snow creation, cringing. "I wanted it to look like a nineteenth century dandy," she said. "I found an old top hat and waistcoat in my house, so I thought, 'why shouldn't I put it on a snowman?'"

The snowman – for lack of a better term for the quasi-snow creature – was a heap of snow piled up to three feet high. The head was oddly shaped, with the mouth area jutting out farther than the nose was supposed to. Sybil had only drawn the eyes with her finger, and without any discernable lines, it was difficult to see where the eyes were. Of course, there was the worn top hat and the waistcoat (where several threads hung loose) to add insult to injury. It was quite a spectacle.

"The clothes are fine," Tom said. "But the face — that's what I find creepy."

"There's nothing wrong with its face!" Sybil, faking offence. She did realize the visage of the snowman was, to put it politely, imperfect, but she hated admitting she had little artistic talent. "I thought I could make it like Olaf from Frozen."

"You wanted to make a nineteenth-century looking Olaf?" Tom asked.

"Yes. But you're right: it doesn't look that good. I haven't built a snowman in a long time," Sybil admitted.

"Did Mary the snow queen refuse to come out of her room?" Tom teased.

Sybil giggled. "Something like that. I always thought Mary had a frozen heart."

Tom inspected the snowman. "I don't think Olaf really likes the fancy clothing," he said finally. "Maybe that's why he's making a weird face."

Tom flung the top hat off of the snowman's head and pulled off the waistcoat.

"Well, now he's naked," Sybil said.

"Wait just a minute," Tom said. He undid his own wool scarf and wrapped it around the snowman's head.

"There, now is babushka," Tom said in a Russian accent.

Sybil smiled. "How do you do that?"

"Do vhat?" Tom asked, still faking the accent.

"You make everything better, practically just by touching it," Sybil said. "The way you

decorated the tree like a god, and earlier going through the boxes like fire. And just now, you turned this Quasimodo snowman into Olaf."

"I'm no god, Sybil," Tom said. "I'm just an Irishman who likes to help out his girl whenever she asks for it."

Sybil blushed. He called me his girl! she squealed inside.

Tom looked towards the sky. "Do you think it's going to snow again?"

"Probably," Sybil said. "It hasn't really stopped snowing since yesterday morning. It's a good thing Matthew's flight got pushed forward; otherwise, he wouldn't have made it out."

Tom made a noise of agreement. "The problem is, now we're stranded here. It does no good it people can't drive their cars around and such."

Sybil sighed. "I bet you're going to be pretty busy at the garage, huh?" she said to Tom.

"Maybe," Tom said.

He took her hand. "But I'm not working now. Let's just enjoy the snow while we aren't sick of it."

"You're right. Pretty soon this snow will be old news," agreed Sybil. "So, do you wanna build another snowman?" she asked in a high pitched voice.

"Of course," said Tom. "We need to give Babushka Olaf someone to talk to."

"Babushka Olaf?!"

Crunch.

Sybil looked around. "Tom, did you hear someone in the snow just now?"

Tom looked unsurely at Sybil through the corner of his eye. "Wasn't that just you?"

"No. I wasn't moving."

Crunch.

"Stop moving, Tom!" Sybil ordered. Tom threw his arms up in exasperation.

"Sybil, you were acting just like this in the attic! Don't tell me you think that it's the demon Santa again."

"That was only Isis playing a prank on me," Sybil said. "But listen: I don't see any dog around, we're a five-hundred feet from the house, and that crunching sound —"

Crunch.

" — is getting closer."

"Sybil, just relax. It's probably just some snow falling from a tree."

Sybil grabbed the neck of Tom's parka. "Tom, please don't tell me I'm mental. I know that devil Santa is out there, and I know it is coming."

Sybil leaned in close, looking straight into Tom's blue eyes. "It is coming for the both of us."

Tom really did feel uneasy as she gave him a crazy-eyed glare. Somehow, there was something oddly disturbing about the look in her eye, like in horror movies where the protagonist has a supernatural sense of discerning evil. But those were movies, and Sybil probably was taking her paranoia to the point of pure exaggeration.

"Sybil, it's not going to do any good if you keep cowering behind me," Tom said. "What happens to me if Santa runs me through?"

Sybil released Tom's parka and stepped back, hesitating and thinking at once.

"You are absolutely right," she said. "God, why am I acting like such a scaredy cat? If I keep using you as a human shield, it's going to kill you first! How could I be so stupid and selfish? Putting you in danger like that, what was I thinking?"

Fecking hell, Tom thought. I always thought Sybil wouldn't flinch if a tiger was charging her. How is it she's the damsel in distress when it comes to an old Santa statue?

Crunch. Crunch.

"Sybil, listen closely to me," Tom whispered in her ear. "Do you think you can run back to the house? Do you think you can?"

Sybil looked up at Tom, confused. "Y-yes. Why?"

"Just wait until I tell you to do so, and then run. As fast as you can."

Crunch.

"Tom, do you see it somewhere?" Sybil whipped her head from side to side, searching the horizon frantically for a small red suit.

"Don't look for it," Tom instructed. "Run straight for the house, and don't look back. Whatever you do, don't try and find the demon."

Sybil nodded. "What should I do now? When do I start running?"

"When the thing has its back turned," Tom said, squinting far over Sybil's head. "I don't think it sees us yet, but when it isn't facing us, take your chance."

Sybil breathed heavily, slow and long, trying to stay calm. "God, where is it? How can you see it?"

"Not now, Sybil," Tom shushed her. "It's important that you – RUN!"

Sybil took off, bounding towards the house like a spooked deer, eyes focused only on the front door which grew in size before her. The snow cracked and fell apart underneath her feet. Her breath came in thick cloud before her, and quickly her throat began to stress from inhaling the frigid air. Still, she kept on running, not looking around her, even if the demon Santa Claus was right behind her, raising his little bell to dash her brains out. That thought made her run even more desperately, the adrenaline surging through her like a flooding river.

Meanwhile, Tom began to roll three small spheres from the snow, padding the snow down to make sure it did not collapse on him. It had been a long time since he himself had built a snowman, but he was able to accurately recall the instructions his older brother gave him upon his first building a snowman.

Once the body was done, Tom snapped some thin branches off a nearby tree, and stuck them in the snowman for arms and lay some on the top for hair. For the eyes, nose and mouth, he broke another twig into small bits and fashioned a cat-like smile, small beady eyes, and a long stiff nose.

He was almost done when his mobile began to ring. There was a text from Sybil.

Tom, where are you?!

Tom texted back: I'm not dead, just so you know.

Sybil's next question came a few seconds later. What are you doing?

In reply, Tom snapped a picture with his new snowman and Babushka Olaf happily standing together. He was on his way back to the house when his mobile rang again.

WHERE THE HELL IS THAT MONSTER?

Forced me to give Babushka Olaf a mate. Don't worry, I'm coming back to the house. Tom shoved his phone back in his pocket, smiling at his handiwork.

Crunch.

Tom stopped. It was the same noise that Sybil had pointed out earlier, the same noise she had attributed to the demon Santa —

Crunch.

God, where could that be coming from? He didn't spot anything in the bright snow, where any degree of colour could be see, and he had perfect vision. It did sound rather close, but no one else was around him. Tom shook his head: now he was being the paranoid one. It must have only been some plow moving snow about in some place he could not see.

Crunch.

Tom began to walk, faster than he had been doing before. Bizarrely, his heart was beating harder. Why was he acting like this demon Santa was real? He had learned long ago that the monsters his mother had used to scare him into bed every night were not real (or died out long ago). So why the bloody hell was he starting to jump at every sound even though he had never even seen the fecking Santa that turned Sybil into an absolute chicken?

Crunch.

Was that a flash of red Tom had caught a glimpse of, hiding in the snow?

Somewhere in the distance, there was the faint tinkle of a tiny instrument, like a bell.

Tom began running, stumbling through the snow. All the while he was shouting at himself.

You are a fecking idiot, Tom Branson. You're a grown man, why are you running like a scared little boy? Honestly, even if I see that Santa statue, it would be up in the attic, not outside in the snow!

He flung open the doors and shut them behind him, panting and letting the warm inside air fill his lungs.

"Oh my God, Tom! I was so worried about you!" Sybil cried as she threw herself at him. "I can't believe that evil demon forced you to work, in the freezing cold no less. Did it see you escape? Are you hurt —?"

"Sybil, look at me, I am absolutely fine. Not a scratch," Tom reassured her. "But I thought it would be better to wait until we had protective measures in place before trying to kill it."

"I'm glad you didn't attempt to kill it here and now," Sybil said. She had already taken off her wet coat and hat. "It can punch a hole in your head with the sharp edge of its little bell?"

"Are you serious?" Tom asked. He remembered the distant ringing of a bell that he heard outside.

"Of course I am," Sybil said. "Before I fell down the stairs, I heard it clanging the bell around my door. That's how you know it is preparing for murder."

Sybil began helping Tom to take off his parka. "Let's go downstairs and get some hot cocoa. We're safe inside."

"Allow me to say that you were very brave, Sybil. You took off like light, and you didn't stop for anything," Tom praised her. "Did you run a lot as a kid."

"No, not at all," Sybil said. "I tripped a lot whenever I ran, and I'd alway tear clothing and muss up my hair. I suppose when you're threatened, though, you immediately become an Olympic runner."

"Yeah, I guess," Tom said. "I'm glad you're safe, anyway."

"Me too," Sybil said. "I mean – I'm glad you're safe as well, not like I'm glad that I'm safe – obviously I'm happy that I'm alive, but just –"

"I understand Sybil," Tom said. He took her hand and together they walked down to steaming hot mugs of rich cocoa.