Once Upon a Time, in Storybrooke

[notinthebook]

 It's not that she's against Christmas, exactly.  That would be pointless, like being against the whole leggings-as-pants trend and wondering why there isn't a decent Top 40 station in Storybrooke.  Christmas is fine, and she's always sort of enjoyed seeing lights go up, white and brilliant, like stars nestled in tree branches and twined around lampposts.

Sure.  She hates the rush, the trampled snow that gets grayer with every passing day.  In California and Florida, she's weirded out by Christmas lights on palm trees, Santas in shorts, and she doesn't think anybody is really for either the insanity of Black Friday or the panicked rush of stores, wiping shelves clean within hours of midnight on Christmas Eve.

It's fine.  It happens all around her, like a hurricane that whirls outside a glass container, and she watches it go by and then everyone regains their collective sanity just long before making terrible decisions while drinking too much champagne on New Years, like God intended, and that's...

Fine.

Except, this year, it's not.

Some kind of madness seems to have overtaken Storybrooke, and Emma's not sure what to make of it: there are wreaths on every door, the houses are drawn out in lines of twinkling lights, and the snow keeps falling, fluffy and white, delighting both Henry and Mary Margaret, who, really, they live in Maine, how are they not used to this yet?  Even the Sheriff's station has been hit by the Christmas bug; she's been eying a tree in the corner all day, has dodged mistletoe at Granny's twice, and finally had to call it a day after catching Marco stringing up hand-carved ornaments in the cells.

A tree.  Presents.  Henry keeps trying to hit her with snowballs, and Mary Margaret has a pretty pink flush in her cheeks and a look in her eye that makes Emma think she might have caught the holiday party bug, and she just, you know, needs some air.

And maybe a stiff drink.





Which is how she finds herself, alone by the fireside, watching the fish swim back and forth, something in her hand that the bar insisted was eggnog but which tastes mainly like cream and nutmeg flavored brandy, strongly considering just camping out here for the holidays, when something catches at the corner of her eye: a shadow, perhaps, a flicker of the flames.

Somewhere, a bell tolls.  It sounds bizarrely portentous.




Of course, that's got nothing on the girl standing -- floating? is that actually floating? -- nearby, glowing like a freaking lightning bug.  "What the --"  Emma says, eloquently, pushing up off the couch and subsequently spilling her eggnog (or whatever) all over her sweater, which at least snags her attention for a blessed second as she deflates, face twisting up.  "Aw, man."

Comments

[christmas_past]

Bizarre is always in the eye of the beholder.

Or behearer, as the case may be.

But portentous . . . yes, there's probably no arguing with that.

"Don't worry," the glowing and, yes, floating girl near by says, as her hair goes from red to brown and her nose turns up and acquires freckles. "Your sweater is about to be the least of the things requiring your attention.

"Hello, Emma.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

[notinthebook]

"Really?"

Half-petulant, half-disbelieving, partially directed in exasperation at her ruined sweater, and she doesn't mean to be rude (not on purpose, anyway), but to be frank, this is not some shit she wanted to deal with today. Dickensian ghosts are all well and good, but she prefers they stay in the bounds of literature, and leave her life alone.

(Or in the Cliff Notes she remembers skimming, at the very least.)

"And you are, what, gonna take me on a feel-good jaunt down memory lane, so I can find the true meaning of Christmas?"

She considers the Ghost, mouth twisting, before narrowing her eyes, suspicious. "Is this a Bar thing?"

Cubefall was fun and all, but she was really okay with doing all that just the once.

"Any chance I can opt out?"

[christmas_past]

"Jaunt, stroll, march, jog, saunter, slog, swagger, traipse, mosey . . . the exact nature of the journey remains to be seen. As does what feelings it elicits. I cannot promise they'll be good.

"As for what meaning you find in the experience, Emma, that I also cannot control. My siblings and I can show things, but we cannot force you to see them. Only to watch them.

"So, no. You cannot opt out of the opportunity. You can only choose whether to make something useful of it or squander it."

She extends one hand.

"Walk with me."

[notinthebook]

"I think I would have preferred the frog," she mutters, but she wipes ineffectually, once more, at her sweater, before reaching a wary hand for the Ghost's.

"Let's make this quick."

There isn't far to walk, but the fireplace, the couch, the Bar all fall away behind them with a speed that is reassuringly dreamlike, though her shoulders tense, stomach knotting tight.

The fireplace. Dissolving into a brilliant mist, before reconstructing itself, shrinking to fit a large, square room, furnished with worn, but clean, furniture. In the corner stands a tall but spindly tree, inexpertly decorated with paper chains and plaster ornaments, all looking a little squashed around the edges, each with a name painstakingly painted in large, childish letters. There's clearly been some care taken here, but it is somewhat clinical, mildly drab. The colored lights on the tree are old, the presents under it a small, wistful pile.

Her mouth firms, and her eyes slide away from the tree. "Nothing like a children's home Christmas."

[christmas_past]

"I could observe that each Christmas is unique," the Ghost says, "but I do not think you would appreciate it.

"Still, as we are here, do not be so quick to sum up this Christmas before you have truly seen it this time around."

[notinthebook]

"They were all pretty much the same for me," she says, but she's interrupted by a sudden rush of noise that makes her look toward the door; the wet squeak of boots, clatter of feet, children's voices lifting in tumbling comments, a deeper one answering them.

"Wait --" She blinks as the doorway fills, half a dozen children all trying to push through at the same time, cheeks pink, hair wild from the wool hats getting pulled off their heads by the young man following them.

"Kids," he's saying, "calm down, they aren't here yet -- Sarah, don't forget to hang up your coat, Max, stop -- Emma, leave Max alone."

Two blonde heads turn toward him, but only one voice answers, high and girlish, but stubbornly set. "He's taking too long!"

"I remember this," says Emma, older Emma, staring at her own ten-year old self. Blonde curls are anything but sleek, hazel eyes are snapping, and the girl shows signs of growing coltish and awkward in a year or too, but for now is only just pushing wrists slightly past the sleeves of her sweater. "It snowed that year. And there were carolers coming --"

A bell rings, and she looks along with the children, all their bickering simmering down into barely contained excitement. "There," she says, glancing at the Ghost. "That was them, I remember this. Just before they moved me back into a family."

[christmas_past]

The Ghost nods, and then inclines her head back toward the scene in front of them.

[notinthebook]

As the carolers enter, the children move in a mass of delighted voices and slightly ill-fitting sweaters towards them -- except Emma, who hangs back, glancing at the painstakingly decorated tree. One cautious glance towards the happy group at the door, and she's sidling towards the tree and the scant pile of presents beneath, each nearly wrapped. Ornaments like the ones on the tree branches are tied into ribbons on the packages, and she looks through them, looks up at the tree, looks back again.

Emma, watching, feels something contract, unfamiliar and odd in her chest. "People took names from the tree and bought presents for the kid they got," she says, though the Ghost seems to require no explanation. "Only, there were always a couple who didn't --"

The little girl pauses, holding a package. A thin plaster ornament hangs, twirling gently, from the ribbon. It catches the light, enough to read the letters blocking out Emma on the tag.

The girl shoots a hunted glance at the doorway, works quickly, untying the ornament, tugging a different one off a branch, and tying the bow around the new name, awkward. Her own is hung back on the tree, towards the back.

Emma slides a look at the Ghost, wary. "It was just a scarf. That kid never got picked."

Done, the girl moves closer to the wall as the carolers make their way to the center of the room. She's watching the other children with a mixture of exasperation and bewildered fondness, and stiffens when one smaller girl leans over to grab her hand and tug her into the group, as the grown-up Emma shifts, a little awkwardly. "Jenny. Always dragging everybody into things, whether they wanted it or not," she says, but her eyes are on the two girls, the hands that don't loosen. Little by little her shoulders relax, as the harmonies of The First Noel fill the room, and the children watch, rapt and transported.

[christmas_past]

"It's a gift," the Ghost says.

Though whether she means the scarf or the ability (and willingness) to drag people into things . . .

Well.

Could be either. Could be both.

[notinthebook]

"I guess," says Emma, watching the children, as harmonies layer over each other, blending like light and shadow. The room seems to be dimming around her, but she doesn't notice.

"It's not like there were many of those. Half of them given out of guilt."

If she doesn't sound entirely convinced of that last point, she gives no outward sign that it shouldn't be taken at face value.

[christmas_past]

"It is not always the thought that counts."

Thoughtless actions can have great impact.

Nor is anyone's reaction dependent on another's intentions.

[notinthebook]

"You don't think so?"

Maybe not. It's hard to reconcile with the memories of being forgotten the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year, where even a thought might have made a difference, let alone a gift of any kind.

The singers are melding into an arrangement of "Sleigh Ride," and the children laugh as one man produces a string of jingle bells from a coat pocket and starts jangling them cheerfully.

Even the child Emma is clapping, pink-faced and laughing, though her adult counterpart doesn't seem to notice, still looking at the Ghost.

[christmas_past]

"Oh, it's not about what I think," the Ghost says, her eyes on Emma-of-the-past.

[notinthebook]

"Even if this --"

She gestures towards the room, the children, the singers, "-- is basically a lie? It all goes back to normal in the morning. None of them got adopted overnight. Santa didn't seem to care about bringing parents or families."

[christmas_past]

"I only show, Emma.

"You decide what you have seen."

The truth or the lie of it . . . well, that's Emma's call.

[notinthebook]

"Yeah, well."

She's turned back, now, watching the children. Lights sparkle, shine, on the tree in the corner. "Maybe if they'd all been more like this one...I remember those kids. We were friends. And, for one night, it wasn't so bad, just being us. At least we had each other."

[christmas_past]

"At least you had each other," the Ghost agrees.

"Are you ready to move on from this place?"

[notinthebook]

She nods, just as the Emma-of-the-past giggles at something said. An odd, stricken look crosses her face. Shoulders tightening like someone stuck a key in her back, and turned it.







"Yeah. Moving on from it sounds good."

[christmas_past]

The Ghost of Christmas Past reaches out and takes Emma's hand, and the room around them melts away.

A second later it has reformed around them and they are returned to the end of the universe.

"I'll leave you to the care of my middle sibling, then, Emma.

"Merry Christmas."

And she's gone.