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."
no subject
Date: 2012-12-12 01:38 am (UTC)Though whether she means the scarf or the ability (and willingness) to drag people into things . . .
Well.
Could be either. Could be both.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-18 07:19 pm (UTC)"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.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-19 12:17 am (UTC)Thoughtless actions can have great impact.
Nor is anyone's reaction dependent on another's intentions.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-20 04:00 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-20 10:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-21 08:44 pm (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2012-12-21 11:35 pm (UTC)"You decide what you have seen."
The truth or the lie of it . . . well, that's Emma's call.
no subject
Date: 2012-12-23 03:54 am (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2012-12-23 04:28 am (UTC)"Are you ready to move on from this place?"
no subject
Date: 2012-12-25 11:44 am (UTC)"Yeah. Moving on from it sounds good."
no subject
Date: 2012-12-27 08:06 pm (UTC)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.