Prosfic Rec Advent Calendar - Day 11

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Only 13 or 14 days ( depends on your country ) to go before Christmas !

Hope things aren´t too stressful for you all?

Here´s a short story to get you in the Christmas mood, so please relax for a few minutes and enjoy !

Happy Christmas everyone !

And thanks a lot to shooting2kill for being my english-beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Sometimes it Snows
by Slantedlight

Sometimes it snows at night, in a hushed white way, as they’re sitting in the car or crouching
behind a pile of rubbish, or pressed hard against a solid brick wall, in the dark, in hidden places.
John Kettley doesn’t know, Michael Fish has not a clue, but the harsh wet world softens in a
glance, in the gaze of eyes and the quiet of waiting, and winter becomes more than it ever really is.

Sometimes, it turns into Christmas.

These are the nights that Doyle likes best of all, nights when promise is everything, and hope, and
all the possibilities that ever might be. Santa Claus could surely fly on such a night, reindeer lashed
safely ahead of him, the stars shining a gorgeous dust beneath the sleigh. There could be stockings
full of toys, and an orange at the toe, the smell of goose in the kitchen, and plum pudding to come.

If, Bodie’d said once, the whole world in a word.

But not tonight. Tonight they stand in the dark, damp car park, shuffling and sniffing and delaying
the moment when they have to separate, to go home, the one working streetlamp so far away that
they can barely see the cars, let alone each other.

Too many people died today, in raucous gunfire and screams of pain, and Christmas feels far
away. Instead there is this, the dark night and the orange-grey light that flickers grimly in the
distance. Somewhere out there wives are alone and crying, there are children that don’t know why
daddy won’t be coming home any more, and there are doctors and nurses and policemen heavy at
heart with what they couldn’t do.

If… Doyle wants to say, but it’s been a long time since he really believed in Father Christmas, and
he’s not sure he ever really believed in that sleigh. There’s no magic in the world, not really, just
blood and torment and the betrayal of one human for another.

“Pint?” Bodie asks at last, braver than Doyle thinks he could be tonight. All that noise, all that
cheer…

“Nah,” he says dismissively, “I wanna get home.”

“Curl up with a good book?” Bodie asks, and there’s a twist to his voice that makes Doyle squint
through the gloom, just in case he might be able to see… But there’s nothing to see.

“Don’t feel like a book,” he manages, neither a real one nor a female one, both bound to be too…
talkative. He feels numb, barely able to think his way to putting one foot in front of the other, or a
key in his car door, never mind the actual cold seeping into his clothes, his bones. He’s on the
verge of shivering properly, knows that he should go, that Bodie should go home too…

He takes a breath, a deep one in the hope that it’ll break the spell, will get him into his vehicle and
away, but he steps forward at just the moment that Bodie does, neither of them able to avoid being
close to the other, too close, hands brushing, and then…

…then Bodie’s fingers close around his own, and Bodie’s palm is warm against his own, and…

…and suddenly there’s snow, hushed and white and magically theirs, and when Bodie doesn’t let
go, when Bodie’s hand tightens slightly, Doyle realises that there might be something older and
more eternal than he ever knew. They stand in the car park, holding hands, and being quiet,
because here’s Christmas all around them after all, and this was as real as it ever could be.