OOM: Ghosts of Christmas

[the_gene_genie]

There was nowhere else he could spend Christmas this year, even if it means he'll have to put up with the whole thing twice. It's been OK though. Alex is sad about Molly, of course, but seems to be happy he's here. They'd spent Christmas Eve lazing about, drinking quite a lot and putting everything behind them for a bit.

So it's a bit of a surprise to be woken up by a light in the room. A light where there shouldn't be one. Gene sits up, and runs a hand over his face. 

'Who're you, then? If you've come for an eyeful, you can sod off.'

Bloody Milliways.

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[the_gene_genie]

And for a moment, he lets her. Not because he feels any particular affinity with her - he wouldn't have had to learn that if it weren't for her, for one thing. But she's awake, and here, and feels real enough for the moment. It's better than nothing, and he's not going to wake Alex to tell her about it.

Just a moment, though. Then he lets out a breath, and runs both hands through his hair, locking the fingers behind his head when he's done.

'What was the point, then?' he asks, though he might have done so already.

'Why show me stuff I can't change?'

[christmas_past]

She starts to fade, slowly growing dimmer and fainter as she speaks.

"Because you needed to see it."

Not, perhaps, a very satisfying answer, but the only one she has.

"As to why you needed to see it . . . that you must suss out on your own, Detective Chief Inspector.

"With a little help from my siblings, perhaps.

"The next of us should be along shortly."

There's nothing left but her voice as she adds, "Happy Christmas, Gene."

[the_gene_genie]

'Yeah,' he says, with no inflection.

'Happy Christmas.'

But she's gone by then. And he's left empty, and suddenly exhausted. He doesn't want anything else to figure out. He's been figuring this shit out for months now, and he's tired. Tired physically, mentally, and any other way that lesser men than he would admit to feeling. He just wants to crawl back into bed next to Alex, and forget about it.

He doesn't. He hates this stuff, hates his past, hates what happened - but he doesn't run. He lights a fag instead, and pours a hefty Scotch.

If there's going to be two more, bring them on. he can put up with it for one more night.

[christmas_present]

Gradually, a warm glow begins to fill the room.

Gene may find that someone has set a small plate of Christmas cookies in easy reach.

"Oh, honey. You look like you could use these," the Ghost of Christmas Present says.

[the_gene_genie]

His eyebrows raise.

'...ta.'

Yeah, he'll never say no to biscuits. Even if they're not Garibaldis. They're scooped up in one hand, while the other holds his glass, and cigarette.

The ghost gets a once-over. The vaguely maternal air is both helpful and unsettling, given what he's just seen, but he supposes it won't stick around for long anyway.

'Your turn to whisk me away to a magical fairyland of my own life, is it?'

[christmas_present]

"I can't speak for the 'magical fairyland' aspect," the Ghost says.

Though the form she morphs into may be an attempt to get into the spirit.

"But we are here to have a look at your life, Mr. Hunt."

She holds out her hand.

"Come."

[the_gene_genie]

He glances at the hand, and drains his glass. Then stubs his fag out.

'And not a red book in sight,' he says, to the room at large, aware that the ghost probably has no idea what he's on about. They likely don't have This Is Your Life where they come from.

'Yeah, alright. Just don't jump out the window like your mate.'

He takes her hand. The other keeps hold of the biscuits in case he gets hungry on the way.

[christmas_present]

"There are many ways to get to where we need to be."

They don't have to go by window.

The Ghost leads him to a wall instead.

"Let us go this way, then," she says, not pausing at all as they step through.

Into someplace else.

[the_gene_genie]

Oh yeah, walls are so much better.

But at least, on the other side of this one, he comes to a place that doesn't hold too many bad memories for him. It's Alex's flat - or what was Alex's flat, before...everything.

'Blimey,' he mutters, and looks around. Everything's changed already. She'd had it all set out modern; white walls, striped sofa, red fittings against clean lines. Though it probably wasn't her, was it? She didn't furnish the place.

This is darker. Black sofa with satin pillows, midnight-blue carpet. A bloke's flat. Though the guy sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands doesn't seem to care what the place looks like.

Gene sighs.

'Deacon.'

As if that explains everything.

'My new D.I.'

[christmas_present]

"Looks like he's having a rather rough time of it, doesn't he?" the Ghost observes.

He looks at Gene.

"Not what you were expecting?"

[the_gene_genie]

'...not sure what I was expecting,' he says, in a rare moment of complete honesty, devoid of bravado.

And for a long time, he just stands and watches. Eventually though, and with a sigh, he walks to the table and sits down. Obviously, Deacon is unaware. But Gene still feels a bit like an intruder, like this is a private moment he has no business seeing. Or more - a moment he doesn't want to see. He knows they come to him vulnerable. But they rarely show him, apart from in their odd moments. He demands they step up and get on with the job. It's the best way to help them. And they do step up. Some do it quickly, some take their time. But he gets them all there in the end.

Deacon's not moving, though. For a horrifying moment, Gene considers that he might actually be crying. But there's no sound, no shaking shoulders. The man's just sitting, with every semblance of total defeat.

A couple of minutes pass.

Gene looks over at the ghost.

'Why show me this? I can't help him until I'm back home.'

[christmas_present]

"Never hurts to have a bit of extra time to think on things," the Ghost replies. "Even if you can't help until later."

That's what he and his siblings are all about when you get right down to it. Potential and what one might make of it.

"Any idea what you might do?"

[the_gene_genie]

'What I always do.'

But he doesn't sound convinced. And that's something so rare as to almost make this a first. He looks down at his hands, where the fingertips are pressing together, bending his fingers the wrong way.

'If I still can.'

[christmas_present]

The Ghost nods. She doesn't ask for details.

"Did you want to stay a bit longer?" she asks.

Or continue on his night's journey?

[the_gene_genie]

He doesn't answer.

A moment later, he gets up and wanders on through to the bedroom. Just to glance in, in case there are any clues about the bloke there. But, nothing. There wouldn't be. He only just got here. So he comes back to the kitchen, and stands next to him. He just wants him to move. It's like he's dead, just - well, of course, he might be. But not here.

Gene rubs a hand over his face, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

'You're not really subtle, are you?'

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what this is telling him. Christ, maybe Deacon's just going to sit here until he comes home, and gives him something to do.

He can't deny there's something sad about it. Something compelling about the slump of the man, so different to when he was gobbing off in the office, yelling about his phone. Are they all like that, behind closed doors?

He doesn't want to know.

'Yeah,' he says, quietly. 'I'm done.'

[christmas_present]

"People tend not to learn from 'subtle'," the Ghost says.

At least not as quickly as they need to sometimes.

She holds out her hand with a kind half-smile.

"Come on, honey."

They'll see where the night will take them next.

[the_gene_genie]

He doesn't want to know what's coming next. But he takes her hand, because that'll get him back to Milliways.

'Can't I skip the next part? It's not exactly good for me, knowing what's coming.'

Sort of defeats the object of what he is.

[christmas_present]

"Sorry," the Ghost says with a bit of a smile. "We come in threes. That's just how it works."

They step through a haze of grey and back into Milliways.

"But listen to my sister. She'll show you what you need to see."

He tips his hat, courteously.

"Merry Christmas to you, Gene."

[the_gene_genie]

'Oh yeah, ta.'

He doesn't bother trying to hide the sarcasm.

'It's been a barrel of laughs so far.'

But the thing is probably just doing its job. And anyway, he's seen worse recently. So he lights a fag, and nods.

'See ya. You'll understand if I don't say 'thanks'.'

[christmas_future]

The ghost that steps delicately out of the shadows in the wake of her companion's departure will understand his lack of appreciation even more.

Few there are in any world that look forward to her visit.

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come does not push back her heavy cowl, just holds out one small, slim hand, and beckons Gene forward.

[the_gene_genie]

Gene had only just poured himself a drink. He glances at the thing, pauses - and immediately drains his glass. Then there's a nervous glance over toward Alex - he definitely doesn't want her waking up and being confronted with this - before he looks at the hand.

'...you get that I really don't want to see my future, I hope?'

Though he's fairly sure this thing won't care. It just gives off that aura, and it's not like the other two were very sympathetic.

[christmas_future]

Christmas Yet to Come merely extends her hand a little farther, just this side of demanding.

Neither want nor hope, it seems, have a place in what is to come.

Or do they?

[the_gene_genie]

He's not optimistic, put it that way. He'd be surprised if they were even on the table.

Never mind. One more thing, then it's done. He puts his glass down, and walks over.

'Come on, then. Lets get it over with.'

[christmas_future]

Many things will be got over with soon.

That is, after all, what the future means. In part.

The Ghost's cold, slim hand grips Gene's wrist unhesitatingly, and she begins to walk. Around them the gloom increases, and in a few steps --

They are already somewhere else.

[the_gene_genie]

It's a street. And clearly a London street - one that sparks something in his memory, even. But he can't deny the flash of sorrow that it's not Manchester. There's a thought - one he hadn't formulated consciously before this moment, before he was faced with it - that he hoped Manchester would be his future. Perhaps it's just a desire to be home that he'd thought he'd outgrown.

He pushes the notion away, and looks around. It's dark, dimly lit by faint orange streetlights that should really be casting more light. Shops are interspersed with houses, and something that looks like a community centre of some sort, though the sign on the front is in Arabic. He doesn't recognise any of the names on the shops, and the few cars parked on the side of the road seem strangely alien. Shapes he doesn't recognise, designs that haven't been thought of yet, in his time.

Well, this is the future. He shouldn't be surprised. But he is, and is immediately uncomfortable.

'Nothing to see, then? Great, we can go.'

There are voices, though. He can't see who they belong to, but they're up ahead, either in the darkness or somewhere past it.