#if i ever make a duplicate of someone else's i swear its not intentional i just dont have time to scour the fandom for every existing edit

[seventh-district]

Figured I'd try my hand at some Redacted character post/text edits!

[ 1 / ? ]

Credit to @/sainthowlzon for all the Listener icons, and to @/elisacaleisa for their google drive with all the canon icons!

(slightly alternative version of the Solaires' GC edit below the cut bc i had a lil too much fun with what Vincent would name his contacts)

[thebootybitchdragon]

Here you go my pretties, here are some random Daniel Masters ideas I have.

Things I Like:

His name is Daniel, and he always refers to himself as such. He never uses any nicknames or variations of it, mostly to keep things from getting confusing since we now have Danny, Dani, Dan and Daniel.

I doubt Vlad's entire motivation for cloning Daniel is to just have a son. I think he either wanted to have him take Danny's place while Danny himself was gotten rid of, or, again, use him as a weapon against Danny. Or for some schemes. A particularly strong idea is sending Daniel, under Danny's guise, into the Fenton Family and having him cause utter havoc to rip it apart.

His human form eyes are a darker blue than Danny's, closer to Vlad's shade. His ghost form's eyes are pink, simply due to the fact that Vlad has red eyes and red eyes for evil or dark 'twin' versions of a character is so overused. Pink is close enough to red to still tie in to the opposite color scheme of Danny's green, like Vlad's red does, and it could also count as a another trait from Vlad since his ectoplasm is mostly pink. His skin is the same tone in both forms as Danny's.

He has a short ponytail. I will fight all of you on this; he needs an evil badass ponytail. The ponytail itself is completely black, bc this child has enough anime hair with his fringe. Overall, his hair is wavier than Danny's.

Daniel is able to take on an appearance identical to Danny's, with very minor differences. The main one is the faint marks where the cloning machine was attached to him. He doesn't like attention drawn to them or people asking about them, even in his true form. The second way is his glowing eye color (which is pink). He is also constantly releasing ectoenergy to maintain the illusion, so he is also able to be detected with any ghost sensor easily.

Daniel initially believes Vlad is infallible, that he is always right, and that his word is law. This is of coarse what Vlad has intentionally taught him. However, as time goes on and he has multiple encounters with Danny and the others, his views begin to get less black and white and he starts seeing problems with what Vlad tells him and does. The first time he questions Vlad, Vlad responds with anger and threats to punish him for 'disobeying'. This causes even more doubt, and starts him questioning just what, exactly, Vlad truly cares about.

He is prone to temper tantrums when he doesn't get what he wants, due to Vlad's spoiling. Danny finds this irritating and complains about it. It occasionally gets them into arguments when they try to work together, because Daniel sometimes has a hard time fallowing Danny's orders even if he realizes its the better plan.

Daniel is a smudge taller than Danny, something he tends to like to flaunt even though its not that big of a difference to warrant it. Mostly it's just because he stands up straight while Danny slumps.

Daniel's ghost half doesn't have the Phantom logo on it. It has the Vladco. logo on the back, between the shoulders.

He is most likely home-schooled, tutored, or otherwise privately educated. Possibly by ghosts. Vlad himself does train him how to use his ghost powers, and it makes a difference bc he quickly becomes a formidable opponent to Danny. Vlad has taught him how to do several select moves that Danny himself has been unable to learn, like proper duplication and ectoenergy redirection.

As a counterbalance to all of the Vlad influence, Daniel has lost the Ghost Wail. It is one of the few advantages Danny has over him.

Speaking of Danny, he never calls Daniel by his name. Ever. He cannot stand to, he is vehemently against it. Daniel is his name. He always refers to Daniel as some kind of rude nickname. As their encounters go on, it becomes a little bit like a game for Danny, to find new things to call him in an attempt to piss Daniel off.

Daniel often dresses, acts, and speaks like a rich spoiled brat because he is one. Vlad will literally get him anything he asks for, something he learned incredibly quickly. As such, he began to ask for incredibly ridiculous things just to see if he'd get them. Thus far, he owns a submarine with an entirely pink inside, a castle made of glass, a tree house palace in his own forest, his own “miniature” jet, three cruise ships, and has an island being made for him, on which he wants to build and upside down tower. Danny has criticized all of this, but Daniel's response is simply “I have an island and you don't, stop being so jealous.”

In the same vein, Daniel always refers to Vlad as “father”, except when hes angry and attempting to be scathing. Whenever he uses the term “Dad”, its a sign that a line has been crossed, and he is very livid. It is also commonly used as an accusation or in that kind of a tone.

He always wear high end fashion, often tailored suits like Vlad. When forced to wear some of Danny's clothing, he complained, “I look so pedestrian.” and “People are going to think I live in the sewer, this is so embarrassing.”

Also: “Move, peasants, your future Prince of Evil is walking here.”

Daniel tends to behave like a more sarcastic, dry-humored rude bratty version of Danny with skewed morals, however he silently suffers from a lack of self image and insecurity. He is constantly worried about his identity, because he can't figure out just who he's supposed to be. He attempts to ignore it, but at night when he can't sleep, it haunts him. He knows he's not normal, not truly human nor ghost in any sense. He sometimes feels fake, like a cheap copy, because he knows he's not his own individual. Its part of the reason he starts mimicking Vlad's over-the-top behavior, to hide his insecurity and lack of identity with fake confidence and narcissism. The more exaggerated he behaves, the worse he feels inside. This is noticed by Vlad, who doesn't notice the underlying problems, and encourages the behavior. Danny notices the change, however he only criticizes it. Jazz is the one to see the cracks in the facade, and the one to shatter it. This confrontation is the first time Danny sees Daniel as an individual like Dani instead of a copy that looks and speaks like him. Danny hadn't considered the clone truly has its own personality, and neither did Vlad.

This is loosely based on the theory presented in the game SOMA: That when you have copies made of you, you are only identical up until the split is made. You then become two different versions of yourself, each believing they're the “true” you. In the game, the people who are being scanned to have a digital copy of themselves put into a computer ark to be sent into space often killed themselves after the scan was complete so that only one of themselves—the scan—would continue to exist. By doing so, they believed they were “continuing” their true existence, when really they were just murdering the biological version of themselves. The conflict of being presented with copies of yourself and of copying yourself is prevalent in the entire game, and it constantly begs the question of “If I'm only a copy, and I still really me?” The game handles it quite intelligently and its a game I cannot recommend enough.

Speaking of insecurity and a lack of identity, Jazz is the one to help Danny cope. This takes precedence over her absolute ire towards Vlad, as she was going to go kick his ass for cloning him yet again. Later, Daniel has a few conversations with Jazz about his own thoughts and issues.

Daniel doesn't understand love. He attempts to “love” Vlad, because sons are supposed to love their fathers, but he doesn't understand it. This is due to a general lack of experience with true care and love, because for all Vlad thinks he's loving and care, it's not quite right. The lack of genuine kindness and empathy is the main issue. The first time he encounters a caring person with those qualities, it is Jazz.

He has an irrational fear of caves and dark holes.

He is a pun master. Some things are just too ingrained in someone to get rid of.

Possible Ideas I'm not sure about:

I am contemplating the loss of the Ice Core, but there are pros and cons to each side. Removing it makes Daniel too different from Danny, as he's supposed to be a clone, however changing it to something else allows for the possibility of a better dynamic; ie: if Daniel had a fire core, that would make him more difficult to fight for Danny, yet also uncomfortable for him as they'd be opposites. As of right now, I've no intentions of changing his core type. I did have an idea where Daniel has an Ice core, however its “tainted”. It's darker and a more prone to forming in jagged, broken ways with dark blues and purple discolorations like bruises. Another idea had been the Icefire core, however I felt that, combined with the already suggested things, was too much Vlad influence, especially for such a large part of his design and character.

Daniel envies those around him who had/have mothers. He finds the concept abstract and foreign, and he wants it. He over-idolizes it, due to inexperience and his own yearning, holding mothers and the concept of motherhood in an almost deity-like regard that's oddly childish. “A mother is the person who can take away any and all pain with her love, who can fix things with a few soft words.” He keeps this fascination/desire/envy a secret, entirely due to Vlad's repeated statement that he was the parental figure. This causes him to become incredibly curious about Maddie, which is exactly as awkward as you'd expect. He never reveals himself, however, and after his existence is revealed, he avoids her specifically as he doesn't know how to interact with her.

He adopted Vlad's swearing habits, however its rare and he uses household objects or small items instead of sweets. He also tends to use them more as insulting nicknames directed towards someone or something: “You absolute moronic table leg!” “Get back here, you insufferable ping pong ball!” “Wel you're a freakin wet paper towel!” -muttering under his breath- “Pens in a basket...”

A minor gripe with the concept Butch did was that he stated Vlad put on a few pounds. Which I legitimately cannot see. Vlad is a wine glass, he cannot be anything else. Even when he did get more muscled as the seasons went on, it was all in his chest, the man does not have a stomach. You can pry my big tiddy'd wine glass mile long legged Vlad from my cold dead hands. (I did like that is seemed like some of his ghost half was starting to leak over into his human form, with the hair shape. Vlad's finally got his devil horns.)

[allyinthekeyofx]

Fading light -part 2- 3/6

PART ONE  -  Chapters 1-6

PART TWO  -  Chapter one   Chapter two

PART TWO

CHAPTER THREE

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call your Mom?”

I’m trying to understand Scully’s reluctance to involve her Mother; I’m aware that the knowledge of her collapse yesterday will just seek to fuel another emotional outburst from Maggie, but even so, it just doesn’t sit right with me. But then it’s not my fight so I’m not sure I have a right to even hold an opinion, much less pass judgement over Scully’s decisions in this regard. To have to watch her losing control of her body is heart wrenching to me and I suppose she should be permitted to decide just how much of her gradual decline she wishes to share with her Mom.

But I still can’t help the guilt that gnaws at me that I am at least in part, a willing conspirator against a woman who has shown me more kindness and the past than I believe I deserve.

But Scully sets her mouth in a straight line, shaking her head and looking all the word like a small, determined child.

“No. I mean it Mulder. I’ll call her when I get home.”

When she will get home is still undetermined however. She’s had a pretty rough morning since she woke up. I hadn’t considered really just what the effects of swallowing so much blood yesterday would have on her and she’s been throwing up on and off for the past 3 hours or so despite a cocktail of anti sickness drugs added to her IV and she is clearly exhausted by this latest assault. Apparently the human digestive system - as Scully helpfully informed me - does not process large quantities of its own blood too well and vomiting in this circumstance is commonplace. It was something she apparently went through the last time around and something she never discussed with me. But then she didn’t really discuss much of anything with me back then and if I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure I had earned the right, intent as I was on seeking justice, and my partner, the woman I loved, the object of such heinous wrongdoing, somehow became secondary to my quest.

I’ve always been ashamed of my actions back then. I think I probably always will be and although I’ve never told her, I’m still haunted by the knowledge that I wasn’t there when she needed me the most. Yes, Scully is an intensely private person, but I was so blind back then that even if she’d expressed her need in neon letters two feet tall I doubt I would have been able to see past the ether of my obsession in order to react to it. And that’s why now, even though I had prayed that a resurgence of her cancer would never come, that I will be to her everything I wasn’t before.

I know I am going to have to leave her soon though, just for a while; because if she won’t allow me to involve anyone else, the most basic tasks need to be completed by me. Essential items, toiletries, a change of clothes, her robe....all fairly insignificant in the great scheme of things but items that will make her stay easier. I particularly know that she is desperate to clean her teeth. Scully is probably the most fastidious person I’ve ever met and I know that being unable to properly freshen up using her toothpaste and her brand of soap is pissing her off. She doesn’t need that on top of everything else. Not when it’s something that is so easily rectified.

I also need to grab a shower and a change of clothes because the scrubs, whilst pretty comfortable aren’t the most inconspicuous apparel to be wearing in a hospital and frankly I’m terrified that someone might mistake me for a member of the nursing staff and my duplicity will end up killing someone.

I’d said as much to Scully and was rewarded by the first genuine smile she had managed so far that day. And for a brief moment amidst the headache and the nausea and the fear, she was right back there with me.

“You’re an idiot Mulder”

I’d leaned in closer to her tickling her neck with my lips as I whispered in her ear so only she could hear me

“Admit it Scully, you just wanna play Doctors with me.”

And that earned me a swat on the arm.

Another small victory. But I would take it.

Shortly after that though she had closed her eyes and by the delicate furrows that marred her brow, I knew that the headache was back. She needed sleep and I’d suspected that it was something she was fighting against while I was still there with her. So I’d perched gently on the edge of the bed and taken her slim white hand in mine. I swear that her naturally pale skin tone had become virtually translucent since yesterday and my own hand seemed almost dark in comparison. And for some reason I can’t quite fathom, the sight of her hand engulfed in mine had tightened my throat as a sudden film of tears inexplicably gathered across my eyes and it took every single fucking reserve I had to not break down right there in front of her.

She noticed of course; I can’t hide anything from this woman and when I allow myself to really think about it, it humbles me that she has somehow managed to know me so completely. I am further humbled when she places her free hand against my cheek, holding it there for just a heartbeat.

“It’s okay” she whispers softly turning those incredible eyes on me that, just for a moment, radiate such compassion, such concern, that I want to gather her up and never let her go. To rain a thousand kisses down upon her body in an attempt to rid her of the hurt and the fear I know she is feeling.

“It’s okay Mulder. Go home for a while. I’ll be fine.”

She is tired. She needs to sleep.

So I simply nod and bring her hand to my mouth, kissing each finger softly before grazing my lips across her palm, tracing circles with my thumb across the satin soft skin and by the time I gently lay her arm across her chest, she has succumbed to her exhaustion and her eyes have fluttered closed. I allow myself the luxury of drinking in her image, the long chestnut eyelashes that sit in sharp contrast to her pale skin and despite the dark shadows under her eyes, to me, she is flawless.

“I’ll be back soon” I whisper.

And the small contended sigh that escapes from her slightly parted lips tells me that she hears me even in her dreams.

XXXX

I had briefly considered walking back home but given the fact I was dressed like an escaped mental patient and clutching a transparent trash bag containing the blood soaked clothes from yesterday, I’d decided against it and had asked the helpful volunteer at the admin desk if they could call me a cab. Even then I braced myself for the driver’s reaction to his strange passenger, but as it transpired, the driver, when he arrived, turned out to be a her and in my experience, women seemed to much less phased about these kinds of things than their male counterparts. A short Hispanic woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Frohike, right down to the bushy eyebrows, didn’t bat an eyelid; she simply grabbed the bag from my hand, tossing it in to the backseat as she held the door open for me.

“Rough night?”

I laughed in spite of myself and rubbed the bridge of my nose.

“Yeah you could say that.”

She simply nodded and gestured that I should sit in the front next to her and I was grateful to not have to sit looking at Scully’s blood soaked clothing for the ten minute journey back to her apartment.

Once inside I gave her the address and leaned my head back against the seat, relaxing properly for the first time since that terrifying moment by the lake when Scully began to choke on her own blood. It happened less than 24 hours ago and yet seems like a lifetime. I am beginning to learn in the harshest way possible that nothing is constant where this disease is concerned. That in the blink of an eye everything changes. I hadn’t realised last time around just how much Scully had hidden from me and just how much she had coped with on her own.

How many times had she been puking up undigested blood after a nose bleed and had then followed me on whatever case I had managed to conjure up to ensure she kept moving? So that she wouldn’t have either the time or energy to walk away from me? Because by trying to keep things normal, I could deny what was happening. Until that final night on the sweeping stairway of the American University.

*I can’t go with you Mulder*.

I hadn’t even asked her why. Oh I knew her refusal to join me was directly tied to her cancer. But I hadn’t asked because for my own selfish reasons I wasn’t able to acknowledge it. That she was dying. Some fucking partner I turned out to be.

“Hey Mister....you okay?”

I snap abruptly back to the present day and realise with a start that we have arrived. I’m not sure how because it only seems like a few seconds since we pulled away from the hospital and joined the throngs of traffic heading in to the capitol.

“You zonked out on me” Mrs Frohike supplies helpfully and I shake my head in apology.

“Like I said. Rough night. I’m sorry, how much?” I glance at the meter and notice that the digital display is blank and am more than a little surprised when I feel a set of stubby fingers tighten briefly on my arm.

“Use it to buy your girl some flowers and tell her I said to get well soon.”

The kindness of a stranger.

And she called Scully ‘My girl’.

I can’t speak suddenly. The lump that formed in my throat makes it impossible. So I settle for a shaky smile that I know doesn’t quite come off and, after grabbing the bag of soiled clothes from the back, I exit the car.

Conscious that time is ticking and I want, no, need to be back at the hospital before Scully wakes up, I head straight for the wide double doors that grace the front of the beautiful old building that Scully calls home. And I realise perhaps for the first time that it feels like home for me too. Three months. Three short months is all it’s taken. Maybe it’s time I had a discussion with Scully about moving the fish in.

The concept makes me smile, a smile that freezes on my face as the familiar voice assails my senses from behind. My reaction is sudden and violent as I spin around to face a man who has brought nothing but misery and destruction to everyone and everything he comes in to contact with. As always a noxious blue cloud surrounds him, the smoke curling insidiously around him as though cloaking him in death and he is smiling at me. He has the audacity to smile at me. The cigarette smoking son of a bitch who calls himself my father. I would rather have been spawned by the devil himself; but then again, maybe I was.

His eyes settle on the bag I am still clutching at my side and his smile widens. It’s almost fatherly, jovial even and that alone makes me want to shove the barrel of my gun in to his mouth and blow the back of his fucking head off. Maybe it’s a good thing that it’s sat safely locked away in the apartment where I left it yesterday before we left for the park. I hadn’t wanted to carry a gun whilst walking with Scully through the autumn leaves beneath our feet. I just hadn’t felt the need.

“Did Agent Scully enjoy her Birthday gift?”

His oily unctuous voice reaches me somehow through the sudden white noise that seems to invade my every sense. And I recognise it as rage. Blind rage that he even has the audacity to speak her name.

“What did you say?”

My voice is low, dangerous, Icy in its control. Scully would be proud. Because what I actually want to do right now is to rip his head from his fucking shoulders.

“Her Birthday gift Fox. The one we gave her.”

I shake my head in an effort to clear it, as a horrified realisation suddenly hits me like an out of control boulder. Rolling towards me, gathering speed, unstoppable and unforgiving.

He caused it.

Yesterday.

The bleeding.

He caused it.

Somehow he caused it.

“You fucking black lunged bastard......” 

and I take a step towards him. I want to hurt this man so badly I can barely breathe. I want to systematically make him suffer in the same way he has made us suffer.

Has made Scully suffer.

But all it takes is for him to hold up his hand for me to stop in my tracks. Because I know. Suddenly I know that this is all a game to him.

“Now Fox. Don’t spoil things for yourself. Who knows what might happen to Scully if you do something rash.”

I ball my hands in to fists, the feel of my fingernails biting in to the flesh of my palms. But I welcome the pain. It tempers me just enough to remain where I am.

“What do you want from us? From me?”

He shakes his head

“You still haven’t figured it out have you Fox? I want nothing. Nothing but your loyalty. When the time comes.”

“When the time comes for what? you fucking double talking sick bastard.”

And when he doesn’t respond something inside me breaks free, I actually feel it give, like a rubber band stretched too tightly, unable to bear the pressure for even a second longer. All the years that this man has loomed like a spectre above us, controlling, manipulative, a manifestation of pure evil, hiding behind a conspiracy that destroys everything it comes in to contact with. And I can’t allow it to continue. For both Scully and I he has to be stopped, and I feel a sudden surge of satisfaction at the fear in his eyes as I lunge forwards and wrap my hands around his throat.

Continued chapter four.

[typetypetypetypeface]

Lucinda & The Holidays (aka Season’s Greetings From The Dept of Mysteries)

Fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe, featuring original characters, with a spy-adventure noir atmosphere. Usually there’s swearing, smut, and some sexy scenes.

6,437 words.

In the Department of Mysteries there are many rooms. Some rooms are popular, and even famous – the shelves where they store the remaining prophecies that survived the war, the room of death’s curtain, and the room of malevolent brains that live in jars and stew in their hate. Other rooms are less popular – the storage lockers where sentient artefacts sleep, the long rows of jars containing preserved samples of extinct magical beasts, and the deep pools of psychedelic dream-stuff milked from the heads of sleeping children. Some rooms have lost their doors and been forgotten for a very long time – stone circles standing in underground caverns carved with runic shapes that seem to move as you look at them, chambers of gigantic fossilized spiral shells bigger than houses from ancient magical life that predates humanity, a vast antique machine that was supposed to predict the weather but started predicting something nobody understood so it was locked away. Some doors only appear when the moon is full, or exactly when lightning strikes but vanishing just as quickly, or during an eclipse, or at certain times of year. Some doors have been forgotten but appear anyway when the conditions are right. And sometimes those doors are noticed.

              Employees of the Department of Mysteries are called Unspeakables, and their ranks are known only to each other. They all knew Cranston Dulucky’s rank couldn’t sink any lower without being dismissed from the Department, which almost never happened. He was young, new, fresh, and stupid. He had disgraced himself in a number of discreet ways that outsiders had thankfully been spared from knowing. He was unscrupulous to begin with, and his own incompetence had made him desperate. So when the door appeared for Dulucky, his first impulse was to find out if he could benefit from it directly. He was in a lonely, dark corridor. Insofar as location has any meaning so far inside the Department’s shifting maze, he was near the back. Nobody would see him. If Cranston hadn’t been here, it was likely that nobody would ever have seen the door.

              The door was red, with a shining green wreath of ivy leaves. The door jambs were like red and white barber’s poles, with the stripes spiralling around them. On the round brass doorhandle there was an embossed snowflake picked out in mother-of-pearl. As Cranston Dulucky approached the door, he thought he smelled gingerbread…

T’was the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring. Not even a mouse. I can’t stand it when people alter the quote to include something more immediately relevant instead of a mouse. So there. Not even a damn mouse.

              I’ve never been big on Christmas. I’m quite uncomfortable around my own family and I don’t like intruding on other people’s family. I always feel like the spectre at the feast – a cynical, mournful, manipulative, blackmailing older woman seemingly incapable of expressing joy. I strictly wear black or grey velvet, not red. For everyone else’s sake I like to lock myself away with a mystery novel, a box of shop-bought mince pies, and a bottle of Baileys (a little Christmas luxury). Winter Solstice is a busy time for witches and wizards, New Years parties are a different prospect entirely, but normally nothing interesting ever happens on Christmas Eve.

              My flat is quite normal in most respects. It has no special magical spaces or enlargement charms, and my few magical protections and privacy spells (to prevent scrying) barely affect the electronics and technology of my muggle neighbours (unless they come inside my actual flat, which none ever have). It’s at the top of a block of flats with other muggles, and like all the others my name on the intercom system at the bottom is faded enough to be barely legible. I know all of my neighbours intimately and keep track of their movements in an off-hand manner just to make sure they haven’t been replaced by magical duplicates, but they don’t know me beyond a nod on the stairwell. One specific Christmas Eve, I knew that the family opposite me on the top floor, the neighbour couple directly below me, the single neighbour diagonally below me, and indeed the neighbours for two stories further down were staying with relatives. I was quite alone at the top of the building. So I was surprised when a security alarm spell started chirping, and a little framed photo of my apartment building that I keep on my wall started glowing red on the top of the roof. A wizard was up there.

              I climbed the stairs with my wand drawn. At the top of the stairwell just above the door to my flat (closed and triple-locked behind me), there was a door onto the building roof. I clicked it open silently and did my best not to crunch out onto the asphalt. Sure enough there was a dark-cloaked figure out there in the night. From the shape of its hood, the figure appeared to be looking up into the sky. It was sitting on one of the box vents. I would have immediately paralysed the unknown figure had I not seen a small cling-film packet of sandwiches next to their propped-up broom. Nobody coming to see me with hostile intent would pack a snack.

              “Hello?” I said, from behind the doorway onto the roof.

              The figure span around. It was a pale man in a Ministry robe, with a wispy black moustache but thick eyebrows.

              “Hello,” he said, uncertainly.

              “What are you doing on my roof, officer?” I asked. I didn’t know if he was an Auror, but it’s a useful assumption to make.

              “Nothing to worry about. Just some routine surveillance, miss…?” he trailed off, questioning. His voice was high, nasal, and posh. He sounded officious. I try not to let first impressions stand in the way of a potential opportunity but I dislike being patronised.

              “Baker. Lucinda Baker.”

              “Not the Lucinda Baker?”

              “Probably,” I said with an inward sigh, wishing there was someone else with that name. I came out from where I had been sheltering, walking over to him in the mild winter air. It had rained earlier and the street below glistened beneath the streetlights. They shined up at our faces, giving everything a theatrical feel. Not a single snowflake had fallen anywhere in London so far that year. That doesn’t happen at Christmas in London. The films are lies.

              “You may return inside, if you wish,” said the man.

              “Who are you?” I asked, bluntly. I did not wish.

              “I am Cranston,” he said, sitting up proudly, “Cranston Dulucky of the Unspeakables.”

              “And your purpose here?” I asked, standing next to him at an angle that meant I wasn’t exactly looming over him, but could if I wanted to.

              “Nothing you need concern yourself with,” he said airily.

              “You’re on my roof on Christmas Eve. Explain this to me.”

              “It’s the business of the Department of Mysteries.”

              “It’s the business of my bloody rooftop. You can either include me on your lonely top-secret business, or you can leave it.”

              “I’m not alone, I have the authority of the Ministry behind me,” he said. I can tell when someone is lying.

              “Is there a team of veteran Aurors lurking in the sky while you sit down here and enjoy your sandwiches? What are those, corn beef?”

              His face turned red and he briefly glanced up at me, furious. But he winced away at the expression I returned, and deflated.

              “They were supposed to be chicken and sweetcorn,” he said, “But the mayonnaise was old.”

              “What a wonderful Christmas Eve you’re having.”

              “It may improve,” he said, “And besides, it’s apparently no worse than yours. Alone too?” he asked, cocking me a condescending eyebrow like he hadn’t just accidentally confirmed what I suspected.

              “I have some friends coming over later,” I lied, being better at it than him, “I was enjoying a bit of peace and quiet, warm and safe at home. And then some idiot started sky-watching on my roof without permission or explanation.”

              “If you really must know, I’m going to attempt to capture… well, a kind of spirit.”

              “What kind?” I said, finally interested. I crouched down next to him, resting on my haunches. It didn’t seem like he was going to offer me a seat.

              “A spirit hitherto unknown by all of wizard-dom,” he said.

              “And witch-dom,” I said.

              “Well, yes. Sorry,” he said.

              “And do the house elves know of it?”

              “I’m sorry?”

              “Well, you say it’s unknown to us. Is it unknown to everyone else too? Centaurs? Goblins? Mer-folk? I could check, if you want? As a favour? Most other people don’t celebrate the holidays like we do so they won’t be too busy. That’s what I do for a living,” I said, and I meant it. I was absolutely willing to do him a favour. He would owe me one, and he was an Unspeakable. Imagine the kind of favours he could do to repay me. I would charge him interest.

              “There’s kind of a problem, actually. In truth most people have heard of this one. It’s the source of several myths and legends, even amongst the muggles. But there’s so much misinformation, nobody has ever really heard the truth…”

              “A famous spirit? On Christmas Eve? Are you joking?” I said.

I knew who he meant but I didn’t want to say the name. There is power in names. Even now we still don’t say the name of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Joked-About.

              “No, I’m very serious. Attempts to capture it have been made before. I found records locked away in a forgotten room, covered in dust and snow and… and icing sugar. I never heard anything about them but it seems every couple of generations the Department organises an operation,” he was rambling, staring at the sky, “They’ve been trying less and less frequently. The last time was in the 50s. They nearly succeeded. I know what they did wrong. I think I can do better. I’m sure I can do better.”

              “You found the forgotten records and thought you could make a name for yourself in the Department?”

              He jumped slightly. Apparently he had forgotten that I was there. To recover he pulled a pocket watch from his robes and checked the time, then returned to glaring up at the stars. But he made a small, affirmative noise.

              “Waiting for midnight, are we?”

              “It’s part of the ritual, yes.”

              “Okay. What else happens?”

              “You believe me?”

              “I’ve seen stranger things,” I said.

It was true. I had been born to muggles and every day in the decades since receiving my letter I’d been exploring a bizarre fantasy world. Giant snakes, walking corpses, the domestic lives of nightmare beasts far beneath the ocean, an immortal race of dog-headed humanoids living in the frozen wastes somewhere above the 75th latitude north. There are ghosts, dragons, giants and phoenixes. Why not this too?

              “Well, I’ve prepared this especially,” he said, taking a small paper bag from his pocket. He opened it and took out a tiny piece of gingerbread. He showed it to me and then delicately put it back in the bag, and put the bag in his pocket. From the delicate way he handled it, the gingerbread was clearly laced with something.

              “And milk?”

              “Apparently brandy or port is more efficacious,” he said, taking out a shoulder-bottle of cheap brandy alcohol he must have bought from some muggle corner shop earlier. I wondered what he and the shop worker had thought of each other.

              “Spirits for spirits, eh?” I said.

              “Very amusing,” he lied.

              “Surely you don’t just leave gingerbread and brandy lying around on a rooftop to summon… him?”

              “On Christmas Eve, at midnight. There are other preparations. I’ll do them shortly.”

              “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.”

              “I do mind.”

              “It’s my rooftop,” I snapped back, standing up, turning to face him head-on, looming over him fully now. He cringed back.

              “Okay,” he whimpered.

              “What’s next?”

              “Next, the dish,” he said, taking a piece of paper from his pocket. He waved his wand and from the air summoned a plate of fine china, then used magic to transfigure the pattern of the china into arithmantic workings. He consulted his notepaper as he worked, tweaking the woven enchantment until he was satisfied an  the small plate was covered in eldritch patterns. He placed it on the floor next to him, away from me.

              “And then?” I said.

              He started drawing chalk markings on the rooftop with his wand, starting with a wide circle. As he worked he also levitated a handkerchief into the centre of the circle, amongst the runes and symbols. He poured a little brandy into a tiny, delicate glass with filigree around the base. Then he carefully placed the bottle of brandy on the rooftop, against the box vent he was sitting on. He levitated the delicate glass too, and landed it carefully on the handkerchief. It looked like something from an antique dollhouse, if the dolls were all terrifying magic-users.

              “What next?” I said.

              He levitated the china dish and gently clinked it down next to the glass, on the handkerchief. A very pretty Christmas picnic, and a trap.

              “And then?”

              “I shall put the gingerbread down shortly. It wouldn’t do for it to be lying around where a pigeon may peck at it.”

              “Very thoughtful. And then?”

              “And then we wait.”

              “So how much of this is summoning magic?” I asked, gesturing at the chalk markings.

              “None. This is all the trap. It has to be a very powerful trap. Apparently gingerbread on its own is enough to summon the spirit. Mince pies work. So do carrots, really. Just carrots on their own,” he chortled lightly in disbelief, “Such a cheap summoning. People do it every year by accident almost, without even really believing in it. Any kind of tribute will work. It’s very old magic. This spirit has been around for a very long time, after all. They may not have had mince pies when he started. Or chimneys. When it started, even,” he corrected himself, “But they certainly had carrots. Root vegetables have been around longer than humanity, after all.”

              “And he appears when muggles do this, too?”

              “Eventually, yes,” said Dulucky.

              “They don’t see him? They don’t notice that their gingerbread is gone?”

              “What you have to understand is that it’s a very old, very powerful spirit being. Even wizards don’t see it. There are other creatures and entities that are similar – the thestrals for example, can only be seen after one has witnessed death. Tonight’s spirit is even harder to see. You also have to understand that it’s… somehow beyond time. It really does appear to travel around the world – that is, those countries and communities and households that somehow satisfy some arcane conditions – in the space of one night. It can be here and gone in the space of a thought, leaving behind nothing but crumbs and some kind of memory charm. Any muggles naive enough to try and watch for its arrival will find themselves confused, with no knowledge of what truly occurred. Any mundane traps will be untouched.”

              “And he leaves presents?” I said, interrupting his monologue.

              “Hard to say. Sometimes it does. Everyone has their memories modified to believe that there’s a reasonable explanation for erroneous gifts. Ministry staff need to be protected from such charms before I can convince my colleagues that such a thing has occurred. But if there are any moral judgements involved, a ‘naughty’ or ‘nice’ list, then the Department has never observed it.”

              “I’m sure. And reindeer?”

              “Probably just a Scandinavian tradition that leaked into the mythos,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

              “And his snowy white beard, red clothes, rosy cheeks, and twinkling eyes full of glee?”

              “Now you’re just being facetious,” he said, pompously, giving me a critical look from the side of his eye.

              “So what will you do when you catch him?” I asked.

              “Imagine what we could achieve once we understand how it does such things. Such a powerful spirit, with such abilities…” he trailed off, and for a second a dreamy look crossed his face.

              “Advances in magic?” I prompted.

              “Hm? Oh, improved memory charms, a deeper understanding of time, maybe a more profound distance between wizards and muggles. Who knows?”

              “And what will happen to Christmas?”

              “I doubt anyone will notice the difference,” he said, once again waving his hand dismissively.

              “And what about, uh, the spirit?”

              “What about it?”

              “He won’t object?”

              “It’s only a spirit,” he said, looking at me with a moment of puzzlement.

              “Oh dear,” I muttered.

              “Pardon?”

              “Why did you pick my rooftop?” I asked.

              “Did you know that this building is on the intersection of some pretty powerful ley lines?”

              “Ley lines,” I said, with a flat tone to indicate I was not impressed.

              “Certainly. There are several. One comes from Stonehenge, and another even goes all the way to Faulkner’s Bottom!”

              “You don’t say,” I said, suppressing a depressed laugh.

              “And at this rough intersection, yours was the only building with a flat roof.”

              “Why is the roof important?”

              “It’s some kind of domestic spirit, certainly. Being near a chimney, a ventilation shaft, maybe even just a window? That might give it power enough to escape somehow. It did that somehow in 1802 and again in 1822, but the most successful attempts have all been outside.”

              “So it’s just a tragic convergence of ancient ley lines that I happen to live right beneath your perfect trap?” I said, as I slowly shifted my stance and moved behind him with three silent, discreet footsteps.

              “Tragic?” he said, looking up in puzzlement. He looked up to where I had been, but when he noticed I wasn’t there anymore he twisted around and looked behind him. He didn’t get up.

              “You’re conducting your own personal operation without the knowledge of the Department or wider Ministry, yes? So that you can reap the glory for yourself?”

              “Well, I mean-“

              “And if I said I’ll stop you?” I said. It was probably only the Baileys that had caused me to give away my intentions, rather than just striking without warning. Now it was too late.

              “I’m sorry, Miss Baker?” he said, and now he slowly rose to his feet. I looked around for anything I could use as a weapon but the rooftop was bereft of objects. I only had what I’d brought with me.

              “I said I’ll stop you. I don’t know if the spirit is real or not, but on tonight of all nights I’m prepared to do everything it takes to ruin your stupid plan,” I said, pulling out my wand and dropping into an aggressive, poised stance. Ready for battle.

              The streetlights shone up around his shape, so he was a kind of silhouette. He awkwardly turned his side to me, crouching for a leap. Even in the darkness I could see sudden fear flushing his face with red cheeks and sweaty forehead. He was only four feet away. A few steps behind him the rooftop fell away into the sudden drop down the building. Gravity would do all the work for me.

              “But why?” he said, his hand hovering at his robes, fingers twitching like a cowboy from the old West.

              “Because you’re an asshole,” I said, and shot my first curse.

              He dodged it, down and to the left. It shot off into the sky behind him, fizzling out across the rooftops. In the same motion he drew his own wand. I was spinning to the left too, intending to shoulder-barge him off the roof. His stride was longer than mine. He raised both arms over me and swept his cape aside like a matador, and suddenly I was closer to the roof than he was. I leapt back from him, and from the roof’s edge. We squared off against each other, crab-walking away from the edge, slowly executing complicated dance-steps to stay facing each other. I crouched lower and lower, wand dancing distractingly, while my free hand was slowly reaching towards my boot. He shot a charm at me but I pinged it away easily, countering with a quick curse. He rebounded it back at me like a sparking, fizzing magic tennis ball of poisonous green light. I had to duck and roll aside, but as I stood up again I managed to reach my hand to my calf. Now I had a short knife concealed in my palm.

              It was a short two-inch blade that these days I keep strapped to my calf at all times. All times. You mean you don’t sleep with a knife holstered on your leg? Sounds like you’re not paranoid enough. Sometimes your dreams come true, right out of your sleeping head, and then sometimes they need to be stabbed to death.

              A charm shot over my head as I rose, missing me. I shot back a paralysing curse. It pinged off his shield and ricocheted off to the side, into the asphalt, throwing up a rain of grit. Some of it pattered against his face, and he blinked as he fired a random charm in my general direction. I span away from it, spinning, getting closer to him.

              “Surrender,” I grunted, flashing another curse at him. It shot past his head, inches away from his face. It lit his expression – grim, determined, and angry.

              “I can’t,” he grunted, “I have to prove-“

              He never got to finish his sentence. I was right behind my curse, darting the few inches closer to his neck, bringing up my short knife. He was wincing away from the curse so I missed his jugular properly, but I nicked his skin in a long, thin, shallow slice. It was enough to disconcert him. He collapsed away from me, free hand clutching at his neck as he fell. He struggled to his feet, wand pointed at me accusingly, a thin stream of blood leaking between his fingers. He glanced at his bloodied hand and then back to me.

              “Merlin’s beard, you’re crazy!” he exclaimed, face suddenly white.

              “Lie down and you won’t get hurt,” I said.

              “You won’t stop me! I’m going to be the greatest wizard the Department has ever seen! I’ll do what none of them could ever do! Alone! They all laughed at me! Laughed!” he ranted.

              “I’m the crazy one?”

              “I’ll be… the best… wizard…” he said, his white face turning whiter.

              “You really should lie back down,” I said.

              He fell to one knee, looking up at me with confusion.

              “That’s better. Just a little nap. Not to worry. You won’t even remember it in the morning,” I said, pacing around him warily, avoiding his wobbling wand-aim. People are at their most dangerous when they think they’re defeated.

              His other knee hit the ground, and he slowly toppled forwards onto his face. I crept up to him, prodding him with my foot. He was unconscious. Using my foot again, I gently rolled him over onto his back. His eyes were closed, he was breathing softly, and he had gravel stuck to the side of his face. In his pocket, his little pocket watch chimed midnight.

              You mean that calf-holstered dagger that you always wear isn’t enchanted to knock out anyone whose skin it pierces? Mine is.

              To be fair I was entirely prepared to stab him in the throat, and indeed had been trying to. It would have been simpler that way, and he’d done nothing to endear himself to me. But I’m not soulless enough to slit the throat of an unconscious person – usually – so now I’d have to modify his memory somehow and dump him somewhere in the city. It was more risky but maybe I could insert a memory about him owing me his life, which was arguably true anyway.

              I turned to start wiping away the chalk markings. In the centre of the chalk circle there was a wavering figure of silver and red, emitting a soft overall-pink glow that I hadn’t noticed in the drama of the duel. He was partially see-through, like a ghost, and he wobbled like he was underwater. He was nearly seven foot tall, and maybe just as wide, but he had that kind of stocky, barrel-built width that spoke of power and might rather than a bowlful of jelly. His beard was silver and square, neatly cropped along his strong jaw. His long robe was bright-red velvet, unusual for a ghost. It had silvery fur trim that glittered like tinsel in the streetlight. His boots and gloves were leather, but still glittering silver rather than black. Shining red cheeks glowed from above his shining white beard, but his thick white eyebrows were frowning heavily over glittering, furious silver eyes. He had long white hair that tumbled down one shoulder, woven into a braid. Across his other shoulder a leather strap, crossing across his trunk-like chest, held a long leather satchel embroidered with sparkling silver runes. He was wearing a crown of holly leaves. He was glowering at me and the unconscious wizard.

              “Lucinda,” he said. His voice was like an empty winter wind. It seemed to come from a long way away, echoing before the actual words arrived. It tinkled with jangling icicles and delicate frost. He did not sound happy.

              “Uh… hello,” I said, “I suppose there’s no point asking how you know my name.”

              “I know everyone’s name,” he said, his hollow echo still angry, “And what everyone has done.”

              “It was him,” I said, pointing down at the unconscious man.

              “Yes. He laid a trap for me. Better than anyone has in a very, very long time,” he said patiently. His shining silver eyes glanced briefly at the chalk markings.

              “If I let you out, will you just vanish? I mean… I have so many questions,” I said, my voice finally breaking with disbelief and shock. His expression softened, and the laughter lines crinkled softly. Under his beard he was presumably smiling.

              “I can stay for a while, yes. I feel that you’ve earned it. Overall.”

              “Ah. Overall?” I said, pointing my wand at the chalk circles. I wanted to make sure I defused the trap safely.

              “Yes,” he said simply, “Overall, by and large, on average, you’re a good person, Lucinda Baker. Today especially.”

              “That’s… actually pretty good to know,” I said, glancing up, trying not to show emotion, trying to focus on my task.

              “You need not fear. Your heart is good, and the world is complex. I understand,” he smiled again, and it was like a beam of moonlight piercing storm clouds. I choked back some more emotion.

              “Okay I think I’ve found it,” I said, carefully wiping away one rune. There was a change in the air, almost imperceptible unless you were looking for it.

              The figure lifted his hand and pushed it out into the air experimentally. He kept going, and took a step. He walked over the chalk circle surrounding him, his ghost-like form crunching on the gravel. He had some kind of weight, unlike a ghost.

              “Ask your questions, Lucinda,” he echoed, as he walked over to the prone form of Cranston.

              “What are you?” I blurted out, following him.

              “Ah yes, the easy one,” he said, flashing me an entertained twinkle of his eye.

              “What are you going to do with him?” I asked.

              “One thing at a time, Lucinda. On tonight of all nights, we have time. To answer your first question, once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I used to be a man. I barely remember the sensation now, nor my human life. Did you know that there is power in kindness? And love? Do you understand the nature of sacrifice?”

              “I… don’t?” I said, as I watched him crouch over the unconscious wizard. He reached out one gloved hand, and grasped Cranston’s forehead.

              “At the ancient altars of winter, long-ago wizards would summon the sun back to the skies after the long darkness. They would take a totem of life, a tree so resilient that it remained green even in the coldest months. Beneath it they would leave offerings of the highest quality. If the offerings were impressive enough, the sun would be appeased and start to be tempted back. What happens to the offering after that? You can’t take it home because then it’s not an offering. At other altars these things are burned but that seems a waste. Why not give them to each other? It’s a win-win scenario for everybody, especially since the sun was going to come back anyway. So many powerful acts, so much positive feeling floating around in the world. It could easily be used for nefarious purposes, and may be harnessed by malevolent forces. Instead I harnessed it myself, and used it to encourage further giving. I suppose I became a kind of…. avatar, I suppose.”

              He seemed to nod in satisfaction, and removed his hand from Cranston’s head.

              “How long have you been… alive?” I asked.

              “Many thousands of years, but you’ve changed the calendar several times. Since long before the Romans came to your island. Long before your Statute of Secrecy. Long before the Ministry dared to hunt me. Long before this holiday, or holy day, was called Christmas. There have been changes, certainly. Long ago I defeated Krampus in battle, and I no longer leave coal for naughty children. Although if you ask me, coal is a pretty decent gift for a lonely young man down on his luck on a cold winter’s night. But anyway, I believe the people these days have a phrase? ‘Long story short, they say?” he said, straightening suddenly, and his voice grew louder as the wind of his voice built into a cruel winter gale, “I am Christmas.”

              He suddenly blazing with pink light even brighter as his red and silver shone. His long red robe seemed to blow in a wind that I couldn’t feel. My breath fogged in the air. Snowflakes coalesced around him, frozen out of the air.

              “And… and the elves?” I asked.

              “Do not worry, Lucinda. I have long had a treaty with the elf tribes of the North Pole. They assist me, and I use a portion of my power to keep them hidden.”

              “And if they want to leave?”

              “They are free to. They find it easier to come and go from the North Pole than I do, certainly. They are certainly not prisoners,” he smiled, “Ask your next question.”

              “The… the North Pole?”

              “Yes. It is not exclusively my kingdom, but I live there alongside its many peoples.”

              “Are there other creatures there, as old as you? I don’t want to sound silly, uh, sir, but do some of them have dog-heads?” I asked, somehow blushing furiously.

              I swear, I’m a serious professional who doesn’t squeal or whimper about her emotions. I’ve stared down vampires without blinking. I’ve destroyed castles from within using nothing but charcoal and a collection of hats. I don’t blush. But something about this seasonal apparition, literally the personification of benign paternalism, made me shy to ask him about old boyfriends.

              “Ah yes, the dog-heads. I’m acquainted with them, but I wouldn’t call them friends. I suppose now that I’m here,” he said, looking at me thoughtfully, “This is a good time to give you your gift. You’ve certainly earned it.”

              “A gift? For me?” I asked.

              In two quick strides of his mighty legs he was in front of me. Despite being nearly two feet taller than me, he did not loom. He unbuckled the leather strap on his huge sack, and heaved it heavily from his shoulder. It landed on the asphalt of the rooftop with a thundering boom. He undid the leather strap holding it closed, and reached an arm deep into it. The sack was semi-transparent just like he was, but he pulled out something entirely solid. It was a single icicle, almost crackling with the incredible cold that it exuded. His leather mitten-fist was gentle. The icicle was intricately carved. Although the stem was quite thick, it was carved into the base of a richly-blooming rose.

              “Be careful,” he said, his voice tinkling mischievously, “It’s very cold.”

              “Who is it from?” I asked, holding back my excitement.

              “I think you know,” he said, reaching out his hand for me to take it. There was steam coming off of it as the air froze around it. I looked around, and picked up the handkerchief from where Cranston had laid it on the rooftop, knocking the dish and the empty glass aside. I flapped it briefly to get rid of any stray gravel, and then wrapped it several times around the ice-rose as I took it from him. Even with the wrapping, the icicle was still almost painfully cold. A single drip of water fell from the pointed end of the stem. The streetlight refracted and shone along the insides but the lush petals of the ice-rose seemed suddenly wet.

              “It’s melting?” I said, looking up for confirmation at the figure of Christmas.

              “I’m afraid so, yes. Would it mean more if it lasted forever?”

              “It would mean I get to keep it,” I said sadly, looking down at it, suddenly eager to drink in all of the details while they lasted.

              “It would only haunt you. Lucinda, it does not do to dwell on memories and forget to live,” he said meaningfully, and buckled up his heavy leather sack.

              “Wait…” I said, my eyes suddenly widening as he threw his sack back over his shoulder.

              “I’m afraid not, no. Time is still ticking away, and I need to carry this… man back to his own home. He will remember nothing. I hope you won’t mind but I’ve given him a small memory about you. He believes he owes you a favour which will be too embarrassing for him to ever describe to anyone, but that he will certainly be eager to repay soon. I believe that’s what you had in mind?”

              “Oh, thank you,” I said, clasping the rose closer to me.

              “This is not for you. This is for him,” he said, striding back to Cranston, “I may no longer give coal but he’s definitely earned my displeasure.”

              He wrapped one thick glove around the collar of Cranston’s collar, and heaved. He bent his arm until his biceps bulged beneath the red velvet, and Cranston was nearly lifted entirely from the ground. The spirit of Christmas turned, heaving the weight alongside his sack. His arm went over his shoulder, his elbow by his ear, to keep hold of Cranston’s collar. Cranston’s feet didn’t touch the floor.

              “You’re giving him to me as a punishment for him?” I said.

              “There’s a lot to be said for coal,” he said simply, but winked at me.

              “How are you going to get him home?” I said eagerly, “Is there-“

              “A sleigh?” he said, interrupting me gently, “Oh, yes.”

              He carried Cranston to the other side of the roof, furthest from the street-side edge where our duel had happened. We looked out over the parking behind my building, and the communal wheelie bins. As I walked closer, I could see the suggestion of a shape floating in the air beyond the rooftop. It was like staring drunkenly at a picture drawn in the droplets of water on a steamy window – the shape of the transparent distortion was only even half-visible when you focussed on the objects behind it. It looked vaguely square, with a rounded end, and some kind of blades along the bottom. There were no lights, or tinsel, or glitter. It was like someone’s vaguest daydream of a sleigh, which would evaporate as soon as the dreamer tried to describe it. Without hesitation, the spirit of Christmas heaved Cranston off his back and in the same swinging motion, flung him out into the open air beyond the rooftop.

              For a second I felt my heart stop. Cranston landed with a thump on something solid, amongst the invisible structure of the sleigh. The spirit of Christmas had already unbuckled his sack, and tossed it onto the sleigh too. It landed on Cranston with a thump, and I heard the wind being driven from his lungs. It sounded painful. I tried not to grin. The spirit of Christmas was climbing out alongside him, once again not even hesitating before stepping out into thin air. He appeared to reach some kind of step though, because he clambered up into what must have been the driver’s seat. As the spirit reached down and grasped some kind of ropes that had no more presence in reality than a mime, my eyes suddenly followed along where I could assume the reigns would be.

              In front of the sleigh there was another blur, and another, and another. At my angle so close to the sleigh, and so many blurs out in front, it was hard to count them. Whatever they were, they had legs. And antlers. They were gigantic. It may have been my imagination but deep within the distorted lines and movement of the shifting creatures, I thought I could see a red light.

              I expected him to cry out the names of the reindeer. I expected him to zoom away into the night sky, maybe briefly silhouetted against the full moon ��� even though the moon was disappointingly crescent tonight. At the very least I expected a flash of light and sprinkle of glitter. But he merely looked at me from his sleigh, quickly fading away into invisibility, and with a silvery twinkle in his eye he tapped the side of his red nose. Then he was gone completely.

              After watching for any sign of him for several minutes, I let out a deep breath. My breath still fogged in the air. I turned, and my footsteps crunched in the gravelly asphalt but also the frost. With one hand I still cradled the ice-rose to my chest. I intended to do my best to preserve it, and was half-pondering which charms were best for keeping something perpetually frozen. With the other hand I used my wand to clear away the rest of the chalk markings. I vanished the tiny ceramic plate. I threw Cranston’s disgusting sandwiches over the rooftop and onto the street, for the foxes. I’ve always had a soft spot for feral outsiders. I looked for the small shoulder-bottle of brandy but it had apparently vanished. I laughed.

[allyinthekeyofx]

Fading Light 9/24

Fading Light AllyinthekeyofX PART TWO CHAPTER THREE “Are you sure you don’t want me to call your Mom?” I’m trying to understand Scully’s reluctance to involve her Mother; I’m aware that the knowledge of her collapse yesterday will just seek to fuel another emotional outburst from Maggie, but even so, it just doesn’t sit right with me. But then it’s not my fight so I’m not sure I have a right to even hold an opinion, much less pass judgement over Scully’s decisions in this regard. To have to watch her losing control of her body is heart wrenching to me and I suppose she should be permitted to decide just how much of her gradual decline she wishes to share with her Mom. But I still can’t help the guilt that gnaws at me that I am at least in part, a willing conspirator against a woman who has shown me more kindness and the past than I believe I deserve. But Scully sets her mouth in a straight line, shaking her head and looking all the word like a small, determined child. “No. I mean it Mulder. I’ll call her when I get home.” When she will get home is still undetermined however. She’s had a pretty rough morning since she woke up. I hadn’t considered really just what the effects of swallowing so much blood yesterday would have on her and she’s been throwing up on and off for the past 3 hours or so despite a cocktail of anti sickness drugs added to her IV and she is clearly exhausted by this latest assault. Apparently the human digestive system - as Scully helpfully informed me - does not process large quantities of its own blood too well and vomiting in this circumstance is commonplace. It was something she apparently went through the last time around and something she never discussed with me. But then she didn’t really discuss much of anything with me back then and if I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure I had earned the right, intent as I was on seeking justice, and my partner, the woman I loved, the object of such heinous wrongdoing, somehow became secondary to my quest. I’ve always been ashamed of my actions back then. I think I probably always will be and although I’ve never told her, I’m still haunted by the knowledge that I wasn’t there when she needed me the most. Yes, Scully is an intensely private person, but I was so blind back then that even if she’d expressed her need in neon letters two feet tall I doubt I would have been able to see past the ether of my obsession in order to react to it. And that’s why now, even though I had prayed that a resurgence of her cancer would never come, that I will be to her everything I wasn’t before. I know I am going to have to leave her soon though, just for a while; because if she won’t allow me to involve anyone else, the most basic tasks need to be completed by me. Essential items, toiletries, a change of clothes, her robe....all fairly insignificant in the great scheme of things but items that will make her stay easier. I particularly know that she is desperate to clean her teeth. Scully is probably the most fastidious person I’ve ever met and I know that being unable to properly freshen up using her toothpaste and her brand of soap is pissing her off. She doesn’t need that on top of everything else. Not when it’s something that is so easily rectified. I also need to grab a shower and a change of clothes because the scrubs, whilst pretty comfortable aren’t the most inconspicuous apparel to be wearing in a hospital and frankly I’m terrified that someone might mistake me for a member of the nursing staff and my duplicity will end up killing someone. I’d said as much to Scully and was rewarded by the first genuine smile she had managed so far that day. And for a brief moment amidst the headache and the nausea and the fear, she was right back there with me. “You’re an idiot Mulder” I’d leaned in closer to her tickling her neck with my lips as I whispered in her ear so only she could hear me “Admit it Scully, you just wanna play Doctors with me.” And that earned me a swat on the arm. Another small victory. But I would take it. Shortly after that though she had closed her eyes and by the delicate furrows that marred her brow, I knew that the headache was back. She needed sleep and I’d suspected that it was something she was fighting against while I was still there with her. So I’d perched gently on the edge of the bed and taken her slim white hand in mine. I swear that her naturally pale skin tone had become virtually translucent since yesterday and my own hand seemed almost dark in comparison. And for some reason I can’t quite fathom, the sight of her hand engulfed in mine had tightened my throat as a sudden film of tears inexplicably gathered across my eyes and it took every single fucking reserve I had to not break down right there in front of her. She noticed of course; I can’t hide anything from this woman and when I allow myself to really think about it, it humbles me that she has somehow managed to know me so completely. I am further humbled when she places her free hand against my cheek, holding it there for just a heartbeat. “It’s okay” she whispers softly turning those incredible eyes on me that, just for a moment, radiate such compassion, such concern, that I want to gather her up and never let her go. To rain a thousand kisses down upon her body in an attempt to rid her of the hurt and the fear I know she is feeling. “It’s okay Mulder. Go home for a while. I’ll be fine.” She is tired. She needs to sleep. So I simply nod and bring her hand to my mouth, kissing each finger softly before grazing my lips across her palm, tracing circles with my thumb across the satin soft skin and by the time I gently lay her arm across her chest, she has succumbed to her exhaustion and her eyes have fluttered closed. I allow myself the luxury of drinking in her image, the long chestnut eyelashes that sit in sharp contrast to her pale skin and despite the dark shadows under her eyes, to me, she is flawless. “I’ll be back soon” I whisper. And the small contended sigh that escapes from her slightly parted lips tells me that she hears me even in her dreams. XXXX I had briefly considered walking back home but given the fact I was dressed like an escaped mental patient and clutching a transparent trash bag containing the blood soaked clothes from yesterday, I’d decided against it and had asked the helpful volunteer at the admin desk if they could call me a cab. Even then I braced myself for the driver’s reaction to his strange passenger, but as it transpired, the driver, when he arrived, turned out to be a her and in my experience, women seemed to much less phased about these kinds of things than their male counterparts. A short Hispanic woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Frohike, right down to the bushy eyebrows, didn’t bat an eyelid; she simply grabbed the bag from my hand, tossing it in to the backseat as she held the door open for me. “Rough night?” I laughed in spite of myself and rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Yeah you could say that.” She simply nodded and gestured that I should sit in the front next to her and I was grateful to not have to sit looking at Scully’s blood soaked clothing for the ten minute journey back to her apartment. Once inside I gave her the address and leaned my head back against the seat, relaxing properly for the first time since that terrifying moment by the lake when Scully began to choke on her own blood. It happened less than 24 hours ago and yet seems like a lifetime. I am beginning to learn in the harshest way possible that nothing is constant where this disease is concerned. That in the blink of an eye everything changes. I hadn’t realised last time around just how much Scully had hidden from me and just how much she had coped with on her own. How many times had she been puking up undigested blood after a nose bleed and had then followed me on whatever case I had managed to conjure up to ensure she kept moving? So that she wouldn’t have either the time or energy to walk away from me? Because by trying to keep things normal, I could deny what was happening. Until that final night on the sweeping stairway of the American University. *I can’t go with you Mulder*. I hadn’t even asked her why. Oh I knew her refusal to join me was directly tied to her cancer. But I hadn’t asked because for my own selfish reasons I wasn’t able to acknowledge it. That she was dying. Some fucking partner I turned out to be. “Hey Mister....you okay?” I snap abruptly back to the present day and realise with a start that we have arrived. I’m not sure how because it only seems like a few seconds since we pulled away from the hospital and joined the throngs of traffic heading in to the capitol. “You zonked out on me” Mrs Frohike supplies helpfully and I shake my head in apology. “Like I said. Rough night. I’m sorry, how much?” I glance at the meter and notice that the digital display is blank and am more than a little surprised when I feel a set of stubby fingers tighten briefly on my arm. “Use it to buy your girl some flowers and tell her I said to get well soon.” The kindness of a stranger. And she called Scully ‘My girl’. I can’t speak suddenly. The lump that formed in my throat makes it impossible. So I settle for a shaky smile that I know doesn’t quite come off and, after grabbing the bag of soiled clothes from the back, I exit the car. Conscious that time is ticking and I want, no, need to be back at the hospital before Scully wakes up, I head straight for the wide double doors that grace the front of the beautiful old building that Scully calls home. And I realise perhaps for the first time that it feels like home for me too. Three months. Three short months is all it’s taken. Maybe it’s time I had a discussion with Scully about moving the fish in. The concept makes me smile, a smile that freezes on my face as the familiar voice assails my senses from behind. My reaction is sudden and violent as I spin around to face a man who has brought nothing but misery and destruction to everyone and everything he comes in to contact with. As always a noxious blue cloud surrounds him, the smoke curling insidiously around him as though cloaking him in death and he is smiling at me. He has the audacity to smile at me. The cigarette smoking son of a bitch who calls himself my father. I would rather have been spawned by the devil himself; but then again, maybe I was. His eyes settle on the bag I am still clutching at my side and his smile widens. It’s almost fatherly, jovial even and that alone makes me want to shove the barrel of my gun in to his mouth and blow the back of his fucking head off. Maybe it’s a good thing that it’s sat safely locked away in the apartment where I left it yesterday before we left for the park. I hadn’t wanted to carry a gun whilst walking with Scully through the autumn leaves beneath our feet. I just hadn’t felt the need. “Did Agent Scully enjoy her Birthday gift?” His oily unctuous voice reaches me somehow through the sudden white noise that seems to invade my every sense. And I recognise it as rage. Blind rage that he even has the audacity to speak her name. “What did you say?” My voice is low, dangerous, Icy in its control. Scully would be proud. Because what I actually want to do right now is to rip his head from his fucking shoulders. “Her Birthday gift Fox. The one we gave her.” I shake my head in an effort to clear it, as a horrified realisation suddenly hits me like an out of control boulder. Rolling towards me, gathering speed, unstoppable and unforgiving. He caused it. Yesterday. The bleeding. He caused it. Somehow he caused it. “You fucking black lunged bastard......” and I take a step towards him. I want to hurt this man so badly I can barely breathe. I want to systematically make him suffer in the same way he has made us suffer. Has made Scully suffer. But all it takes is for him to hold up his hand for me to stop in my tracks. Because I know. Suddenly I know that this is all a game to him. “Now Fox. Don’t spoil things for yourself. Who knows what might happen to Scully if you do something rash.” I ball my hands in to fists, the feel of my fingernails biting in to the flesh of my palms. But I welcome the pain. It tempers me just enough to remain where I am. “What do you want from us? From me?” He shakes his head “You still haven’t figured it out have you Fox? I want nothing. Nothing but your loyalty. When the time comes.” “When the time comes for what? you fucking double talking sick bastard.” And when he doesn’t respond something inside me breaks free, I actually feel it give, like a rubber band stretched too tightly, unable to bear the pressure for even a second longer. All the years that this man has loomed like a spectre above us, controlling, manipulative, a manifestation of pure evil, hiding behind a conspiracy that destroys everything it comes in to contact with. And I can’t allow it to continue. For both Scully and I he has to be stopped, and I feel a sudden surge of satisfaction at the fear in his eyes as I lunge forwards and wrap my hands around his throat. Continued chapter four. #fanfic #x files #fading light