Once Upon a Time, in Storybrooke
Dec. 3rd, 2012 05:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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."
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."