christmas carol
A Rodney McKay Christmas Rodney knows it's early, but still, he can't help but stand at the window and stare up at the sky. Even if the big guy in the red suit does show up a little early, something's just not right. It just doesn't add up. His father frowns and then nods slowly. “Something like that.” “What if you see him? Would he disappear?” Rodney asks. His father considers this. “Uh...maybe. I'm not sure. It's a field that needs more research. Bedtime now.” Rodney's already turning back to the window with wide open eyes. He can't get his head around the fact that Santa only exists if you're not watching him. He turns around feeling a little deflated, this time seeing his mother watching him with an amused smile. “Time for bed, Mer,” she says softly. “Rodney,” he replies stubbornly as his mother smiles wider. “Fine, Rodney McKay. Come on. The quicker you go to bed, the quicker you can wake up and open your presents.” Rodney pouts and allows himself to be prodded towards the stairs. “You know what else I don't get?” He hears his mother sigh. “No. What else don't you get?” “How can he do it all in one night? There's too many people. It makes no sense. It would take forever. Even without all the kids on the naughty list.” Then it occurs to Rodney why his parents are making up so many lame excuses. He turns around and stands in the doorway of his room, staring up at his mother. “Am I on the naughty list?” She folds her arms across her chest and asks, “Should you be?” Rodney thinks about it and realises this year it's going to be a close thing, but he looks up at his mother and says defensively, “No,” and “I was good,” and “I still don't get it.” His mother points towards the bed where he climbs in, lies back and stares at the planets hanging from the ceiling. “It makes no sense,” Rodney says. “Maybe Santa Claus is evil. Like Grandma.” His mother stops tucking him in and stares. He adds, “What? I like Grandma.” “Santa is not evil,” his mother explains. His mother shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe he can stop time for one night. Maybe for one night he's the only one that can walk around, while we all just sleep. I think it's kind of nice.” His mother kisses his forehead and says, “Enough talk now. Go to sleep. Goodnight... Rodney.” Rodney stares as she leaves, closing the door behind her. Santa can stop time. He can stop something that moves even when you break your mother's favourite clock and bury it in the back yard. Rodney lies back and stares at Jupiter, thinking about all the stuff you could do if only you knew how to stop time.
There's an underground network of caves that thankfully remains undiscovered by the Wraith. It's protected the Athosians from many an attack. Tonight, they're back there again while Wraith darts are shooting across the sky and beaming up every man, woman and child who isn't fast enough to hide. Teyla sits huddled against the wall, wondering if there will ever be a time when she won't have to run from the Wraith. Sometimes, she wishes for a time when the Wraith may have to run from their prey. She wishes the same terror on them. In her heart she knows this is perhaps a petty wish, but it's there all the same. Teyla stops thinking about this fantasy future as her father finally settles down next to her, having done his rounds, making sure no one was hurt in the rush to hide in the caves. “Well, it seems we have survived once more,” he says with a pleased smile. “Thanks be to the ancestors.” Her father gives her a look, the one he gives her just before he tells her that he understands she's at a difficult age and how it must be hard for a young girl without her mother. “Is, not seems,” she says, feeling rather petulant. Outside, a Wraith dart flies dangerously low and screams past the caves, making everyone hold their breath for a moment. Her father sighs. “I wish they would try vegetables just once. Or maybe livestock.” Her father nods. “Yes, fruit. We all enjoy fruit.” “Was it like this when you were a child?” Teyla asks, looking around the cave. Teyla gives her father an exasperated look. He just smiles. “I cannot even count the generations that have spent whole lives hiding. My father had stories and his father before him. Generation upon generation of stories born in a cave. My mother sang to us once, while our people were being harvested outside. She sang a song of the ancestors. My father said it was all the ancestors were worth. Songs and poems.” Teyla shrugs. “Perhaps he was right.” “Perhaps,” her father says with a nod. “But your grandmother believed that the ancestors would return one day. They will return and we will stop running and hiding.” He turns to look at Teyla with a smile. “Tell me, what would you do with such freedom?” Teyla tries to think of her world without the threat of Wraith. She can't imagine it. What did people do when they could stop running and fighting? What did a peaceful world look like? Teyla looks at her father and smiles. “Celebrate.” “Perhaps that celebration is something that makes it worth believing the ancestors,” her father says with a nod, before shrugging. “Perhaps.” “Perhaps,” Teyla says as the noise of more low flying darts fills the caves again. Her father sighs and shakes his head. “Well, that's a fine meal ruined.” Teyla frowns, aware that she's never prepared a meal that was fine. She gives her father a bright smile. “Do not worry. I will make it again.” Her father's smile seems to freeze as he nods. “Well.. praise be to the ancestors.” A John Sheppard Christmas Not that he has anything against Christmas at McMurdo, but there is a certain black cloud hovering over him. John's grateful for every moment he spends in the air where there is no Christmas, there is no season of goodwill, no time of year. Just air and flying and the possibility that he can outrun Santa's ass. Though, he does briefly wonder what kind of speed you can get on a sleigh pulled by some badly named reindeer. He doesn't think he's being Scroogish at all. Maybe aloof because he really doesn't want to share stories of Christmases gone. Even so, a small package appears on his bed, which turns out to be a copy of A Christmas Carol, since he's into reading and all apparently. So John figures the best way to prove how much of a Scrooge he is not, is to show up to have some drinks and listen to stories about Christmases past. He foregoes sharing his own stories. If there's one thing worse then hearing about other people's Christmases, it's talking about your own. By the time he falls on his bed he's a little morose and too tired to be shocked to see Holland hovering over him with a big grin. John laughs a little. “Let me guess. Tonight I will be visited by three spirits.” “I am so drunk,” John says and passes out. John wakes up, nowhere near sober yet. “Hey. You're the first one, huh?” “Yep. I'm you. From the past,” the spirit says all matter of fact. John scowls. “Why?” “You know, loss of innocence and childlike appreciation of... stuff,” the first spirit says. “That doesn't sound like me. I've got plenty of those things,” John says. “And my hair is way better than it used to be.” His spirit scowls. “Whatever. Look, just follow me, okay?” John groans and tumbles out of his bed into what feels like twelve inches of snow. He gets up slowly, looking around at a familiar back yard. There's snow, a quiet house under a clear blue sky. He knows his mother's inside and some people will be arriving soon. Just not anyone he knows. What would be the point of getting to know people anyway? “On the other hand, you can just stay like him forever,” the spirit says from next to him, pointing. John follows the hand and sees himself, a child kicking at the snow. He can't even be bothered to do something inventive with the snow, probably because he feels a little too old for a snowman. Yep, John remembers that Christmas well. “So, you're here to tell me I should make more snowmen?” John asks. The spirit gives him a look and says, “I'm saying you should go inside and make some friends.” John turns to look at the house, finding himself sitting up in bed, clothes still on and blankets half off the bed. He squints, rubbing his temples, promising never to drink again. Or at least not for a few days. That's when he hears the single strum of a chord and looks up to see a man in black sitting on a stool in a perfectly round halo of light. “No, sir,” his second spirit says, his voice melodic. “This is the real deal. I am the spirit of Christmas present,” John nods. “Which is?” “Which is you being drunk off your ass and talking to me, son,” the spirit in black says. “Shouldn't you be the spirit of Christmas future? I mean, the black and everything,” John waves at the spirit's clothes. “This isn't about death, John,” the spirit says with a strum. “You know it's not.” John reminds himself he's drunk before feeling too happy about the spirit calling him John. “You here to tell me I should change?” The spirit seems to think it over. “I got no problem with you, son,” he says before shrugging and singing, “Jailer, oh, jailer...” John lies back with a smile and closes his eyes, waking when he feels a hard slap to the face. “Hey!” He opens his eyes and sees he's at the foot of a freshly dug grave with a simple white cross at the head, empty chairs either side of the grave. He smirks and turns around to see his third spirit complete with shroud and bony finger pointing at the grave. John shrugs. “So there's no one else here to cry me a river, big deal.” “Hey, the second spirit said there's nothing wrong with me. I don't need to change,” John says. “Except for drinking whatever the hell is making me trip out here.” The shroud falls to the ground, revealing nothing but a golden glowing light. If he looks close enough there's a face in there, smooth and beautiful, smiling at him. She floats forward, wrapping him in warm and bright tendrils and whispers. “Don't change. Just think about changing your mind.” John wakes up, mouth still pouting as if someone's just kissed him.
The mess is filled to the brim with people, a huge tree from the mainland in the corner. There's eggnog and mince pies. There's also alien hooch and Athosian finger food. Ronon is half-lying in his seat, Teyla poised properly in the seat next to him and they're both watching John and Rodney with amusement. “So, you're celebrating the birth of this Jesus guy,” Ronon says. John makes an odd non-committal face saying, “Well, yeah,” as Rodney looks thoughtful. John looks across at Rodney and says, “Rodney?” “No no no. Me? Not so much with the religion. Let's uh, let's just stick to the whole goodwill to all men thing.” “And the women?” Teyla asks. “Especially to the women,” John says with a huge charming smile that only makes Ronon and Teyla laugh at him. “What are we talking about?” Elizabeth ask as she joins them at the table. “Well, we were just explaining to Ronon and Teyla what the spirit of Christmas is,” John says with a wave of the hand. “Oh dear,” Elizabeth says before looking at Teyla and Ronon. “Whatever they told you, it's not that bad.” “Me too,” John says with a nod. “It was not that bad,” Teyla says reassuringly. “Is the thing about the fat guy true?” Ronon asks. “No,” Rodney says emphatically. “A guy in a red suit squeezing down chimneys delivering presents to every kid in one night? I can't believe people buy this stuff,” Rodney says looking appalled. John looks shocked. “Wait... there's no Santa?” Rodney narrows his eyes at John and says, “Very funny.” John looks pleased. Ronon and Teyla laugh. Elizabeth smiles, fighting the urge to raise her glass and say, 'god bless us, every one.'
He wakes early in the morning, It's a mild day, though the clouds look as though it might rain later on. He saddles up and rides into the forest, keeping an eye out for the perfect tree. When he finds it, it takes a while to cut it down. He's not as young as he used to be. It doesn't take too long to take it back to the farm and it's standing tall and proud by noon. Once it's stable, Ronon stands back and looks at it for a moment before the children are allowed to run in and decorate the tree with ornaments they've made themselves or he's carved out of the wood from trees of Christmases past. The children aren't his. They're his children's children. Something he'd never thought possible for a long time. These children will never know of the Wraith and Ronon can live with that. It's enough that he can remember. A hand touches his arm and he looks down at it and then at his wife who is squeezing his arm. She smiles up at him and asks like she does every year, “Still don't want to tell me what this is?” Ronon smiles. “It's just a tradition.” “I know,” she says with a smile. “That's what you always say. But, what does it mean?” Ronon shrugs. “It's just something nice to look at.” “And the presents?” Ronon sighs and sits down, watching his grandchildren play. “It's just something you do. With your family.” “And these?” she asks, touching his fisted hand. He opens it up and looks at the tags of a long gone friend, thinking of everyone he's lost. Smiling at them, remembering the man who wore them, he gets up and goes to the tree, reaching out and hanging the tags on the top, where they shine like silver stars. For the brave, he doesn't add. - the end - |