the_gene_genie | OOM: Ghosts of Christmas

"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."

'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'.'

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.

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 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?

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.'

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.

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.

Her grip is cold as the grave, and, in its own way, inexorable.

She does not push, but she also does not begin to walk.

These next steps shall have to be his, and they will take him only forward. Always and ever forward.

He stands for a long time. He tells himself he's not hesitating, just trying to remember where this is.

But he knows, really. Everything might be different, but the destination is always the same. He doesn't get to go forward. Only 'round and around in circles.

He doesn't want to watch it again. He doesn't want to see faces he has no business seeing yet.

He also doesn't want to stand here until Hell freezes over. So, eventually, he starts to walk.

Like every time, it's night - even if the job that got them here took place at midday, a few minutes before. Like every time, he remembers as he moves: what's coming, what he has to say, who's going to be waiting. He hasn't forgotten the most recent trip, because of the bar, but it becomes sharper as he gets closer, a scalpel blade slicing into soft flesh that had started to heal over. He swallows it down. Alex is at the bar. She's sleeping. She'll wake up when he gets back. He isn't saying goodbye to her all over again. And Shaz is there, safe. The lads resisted temptation. It was for the best, and they'll be happy.

Knowing it doesn't stop the fear that gathers his gut in a tight fist, and twists. And that's new. Normally he's calm on this walk, just a man doing what has to be done. But he's not normally doing it with his own past seared into his memory.

'Really don't need a refresher course in doing my job,' he mutters, to distract himself, but he knows the ghost won't give a damn. He looks through the gloom, trying to see because the voices are getting louder, but all he learns is that this must be far, far in the future. The road surface is made of something completely new to him, and the streetlights aren't on traditional poles. They look like they're hovering, though that can't be right. And the traffic noise in the distance sounds different. Quiet humming, rather than the roar of engines. Electric, he realises. It sounds like electric. Bloody future poofs.

And then, he stops. The end of the road is suddenly there, lit up by the gold-and-white light shining out from The Railway Arms. Even that looks different, though maybe it's always like that and he just never noticed. It's weird, viewing it from an outside perspective. Just like it's weird watching himself stand there, offering a gloved hand to a bloke who looks like he's about to fall down. There's a woman as well, hanging on the bloke's other arm - maybe it's for support, maybe more. It doesn't matter.

And, Nelson. Of course. He's standing by the door, holding it open for his imminent arrivals. He looks the same as ever, grinning away, dreadlocks on full display. But Gene doesn't want to get any closer.

'Far enough,' he says, firmly.

The ghost will just have to lump it.

A whisper of air behind him is the only sound, but the sudden pressure of the ghost's hand on his shoulder is well-nigh immovable.

Is it intended to keep him in place, to give him the time to absorb what he's being shown?

Or is it a push to get him to move closer, to learn all he can from this one too-short moment?

Simple physics would deny the possibility that it is both.

Yet physics has nothing to do with this night. Not at all.

He can't decide whether the ghost is trying to pressure him, but either way, it's not enough to get him to move. He doesn't need to get closer to see what's happening, but he is confused as to the point. This is what he always does. He really doesn't need reminding.

The two coppers say something, and the woman steps away - and then turns back, and gives him a hug. He watches the awkward expression on his own face, though it's quickly replaced with...gratitude, he thinks. And affection.

And then they're on their way. He doesn't watch himself through this bit, but keeps his gaze on them. Nelson greets them with a cheerful grin, and holds the door open. Gene can clearly see the flash of light as they step inside - taking them somewhere else, or just folding them into the warmth of the saloon bar? He doesn't want to know.

'There,' he says, decisively, and with some relief. 'Done.'

But Nelson is still there. And now the ghost's hand feels heavy, as though it wants him to walk. He resists, as Nelson comes towards the lone figure in the road; resists as his future self looks down at the ground, with shoulders falling. He only moves when the hand on him forces him to - but still, only a few steps. Just close enough to see that his own face looks exactly the same as it does now, despite this clearly being years down the road. Just enough to hear what Nelson says.

'You coming in, DCI Hunt?'

His own face looks confused when he glances up. He feels confused now, standing here. This isn't how it's supposed to go. Nelson looks like he was expecting that, and isn't fazed, though most of the smile has been replaced with concern. 'Wouldn't want your beer to get too warm.'

'It's your beer. It's always too warm.' There's a huff of amusement from both of them, and future-Gene looks away. When he speaks, it's quiet and resigned, though it carries well enough in the night. 'Not just yet.'

'Been a long time, Mr Hunt. Too long, maybe.'

'That your opinion, or have you been told to retire me?'

Nelson shrugs. 'Does it matter?'

'Yeah, it does.'

'...maybe it does. I'm just sayin', that's all. You've earned a drink.'

Gene looks at him for a long, silent, moment. Then he pulls a packet of cigarellos from his pocket, and takes his time lighting it. 'It's not what it used to be, I'll give it that.'

'Then why not-'

'No.' He's firm, though he looks sad. And tired, and old, despite the unchanged face. 'No. Not just yet.'

Nelson looks sad too, though maybe he understands. Maybe he just feels sorry for him. He reaches out, and puts a hand on his shoulder. For a second, the Gene watching imagines he can feel it - but no, that's just the ghost.

'As long as it's sometime, mon brave. No one said you had to do this forever.'

'Best man for the job, that's all.'

A chuckle, then. 'No dispute here.'

Gene smiles dryly and, after a moment's hesitation, offers his hand. 'You're a good bloke, Nelson.

...maybe just one more, yeah?'

Nelson smiles, and shakes his hand. 'It's up to you, Detective Chief Inspector. I'm just sayin', that's all. You've got a lot of people waiting on you.'

'Yeah, well,' both Genes look a touch embarrassed at that - he's glad to see he hasn't lost his discomfort with girly talk, 'you tell 'em to get the beers in, all right?'

Nelson laughs properly, and releases his hand. 'Oh, I think you've got enough lined up to keep you happy 'til Judgement Day, brother.' He backs away, grinning. 'You take care now, Mr Hunt.'

'You an' all, Nelson.'

He never usually stays to watch the pub disappear. As far as he knows, it goes as soon as he turns his back. He doesn't look now, either. He watches himself, smoking quietly in the street, totally alone. And knows that this is what he has to get back to.

But he's not sure he can do it forever.

His future self smokes the small cigar all the way to the end, then tosses it to the road. He turns his back on the pub, and mutters, audibly, 'this is Judgement Day,' before starting to walk.

Behind him, the pub shimmers, and disappears. The man is the only thing left, moving on to repeat the same story. Gene watches his own back until it disappears into the night, then looks down at the ground.

It's a long time before he says anything. Not that he's expecting a reply.

'I never asked for it.'

He might have managed to make the best of a bad situation, but it's still never what he asked for. At least consciously.

The ghost merely stands silently behind him, the hem of her cloak rippling in the slightest breeze.

From whence does it come? Surely no mortal can say.

Neither can the ghost. Her only answer lies in the strength of her grip upon Gene's wrist and the shadows that move to cloak their passage.

And he's glad, so glad, that he didn't have to ask to be taken away. He's got enough to think about without feeling like a ponce as well. And when his room at Milliways comes back into view, he has to force himself not to sag with relief.

The ghost gets a glance, maybe two. It's hard to know how to talk to something that can't, or won't. But it seems wrong to just ignore it.

'We done then?'

The ghost makes no reply, bone-cold hand falling away from Gene's.

Then she steps away into shadow, and is gone.

For the longest time, he just stands in the room. It's nice, in the dark, listening to Alex breathe. If he focuses on that, he doesn't have to think about what he just saw.

But he has to move eventually. His body is tired, but his brain's too busy to rest. So he sits, with a cigarette and a large drink, and tries to process what happened.

Everything points to him going home. And that's OK. He knew that. The thing with his mother, though - he doesn't know how to figure that out. At least, not without dredging up a whole lot of things he really doesn't want to touch. But it's not going to leave him alone.

It's been a long night already. Looks like it's going to last a while yet.

Her eyes open, bleary with sleep, and for a moment, his absence makes her heart clench. And then she smells cigarette smoke. She pushes herself up to her elbows, peering into the darkness for his silhouette. But no, he's just pacing again. 'Gene? Come back to bed, love...'

He half-turns at the sound of her voice. For a moment, he just looks at her outline in the dark, the tale of the night on the tip of his tongue.

But it's the middle of the night, and she's sleepy. And he wouldn't know how to start.

'Yeah.'

It just takes a minute to stub his fag out, and lose his clothes. He slips in beside her, and pulls her gently to his chest. She's so warm, and sleep fuzzy. It's better than any conversation.

'...back to sleep, sweet'eart.'

She wraps him around her like a cloak, one arm under her chin, the other wrapped around her middle, nestling her bum back against his hips.

'Love you,' she murmurs, and with a long, contented sigh, she does as he asks.

He smiles into her hair, and presses a gentle kiss to her shoulder. He toys with the idea of saying something, but then she's asleep.

His mind goes back to his future, as shown to him. Still working, alone, way into the future. Right now, lying here, he's not sure that's what he wants. But he can't fathom the idea of giving it up either.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe he can keep doing it, because she's here.

It's not a bad thought to drift away on.

OOM: Ghosts of Christmas

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