spit_it_out | (no subject)

"I mean you no harm," says figure sitting on the window sill.

It's not moonlight, she actually is glowing, softly if brightly, like candlelight. She's small, and slight, and not nearly as young as she looks.

She slides off the window sill, and her features change three times before her feet hit the floor.

"Hello, Bruce.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

Bruce is staring, half-sitting, mouth open. Vaguely monitoring his breathing, very aware of being shirtless.

And her face keeps changing. He thinks he'd probably worry more, only it's at that point she introduces herself, and incredulity trumps nerves.

'You have got to be kidding me.'

"Have I?" she asks. "I see.

"And I suppose you want me to prove that I'm not kidding you?

"You are a scientist, after all.

"Sorry, it doesn't work that way.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, your past, and I am concerned with your welfare."

She extends one hand toward him.

"Come."

'Concerned with my...'

He snorts softly, and looks away.

After a minute, he sighs and climbs out of bed. The nearest T-shirt doesn't really match his pyjama pants, but whatever.

'I never thought of myself as a good insert into a Dickens novel. And I'm nothing like Scrooge.'

"How boring would that be, if I only ever concerned myself with one kind of person?

"Besides, I don't think we're in a Dickens novel right now. Do you?"

She gestures with the fingers of the hand that's still extended to him.

"Lots to see and do here, Bruce, two more spirits to come, and only one night. We should get going."

'What if I don't want to see?'

But seeing as he's up and pulling sneakers on, it's probably a moot question.

He doesn't take her hand, if that's what he's supposed to do. Just walks to her, and stands a few feet away, rubbing his palms together uneasily.

'OK. No, wait-'

He opens a drawer quickly, and rummages around until he finds something that looks like a watch. He hasn't bothered with this in a while, but it might be useful.

'Sorry,' he says, strapping the heart-rate monitor on. 'OK. Now you can...do your thing.'

Well, isn't he the man who doesn't always get what he wants?

"It's not my thing, Bruce. It's yours," she says, closing her hand around the wrist that isn't wearing what she knows isn't a watch.

"Come on."

She's walking now, over to and straight out the window, keeping hold of his wrist.

They're walking through the air.

And then they're not, and the ground is solid beneath their feet.

"Do you remember this?"

They're in a hallway. There are doors off it either side, and one at the end. It's clearly the upper level of a house somewhere, though there isn't much of a personal imprint anywhere on the light blue walls.

'Yeah.'

His heart-rate monitor beeps to indicate he's just hit 140 beats per minute.

There's a thump behind the door at the end of the corridor.

'Yeah, I remember this.'

He doesn't think they're stopping here, does he?

"Shall we?" she asks, but it's a pro forma sort of question.

She's still walking.

He hesitates, then follows. Because what choice does he have?

But there's not a chance in hell he's going through that door. He's not sure that he can.

So he slows as they get closer, and comes to a halt a few feet away.

'OK. I know how this goes. I remember this. Can we go, now?'

There's a certain kindness to her, but nothing like compromise.

"You know who I am. You know how this works."

And he's going through that door.

Because she's taking him through that door.

His shoulders drop a little, but he doesn't put up any resistance.

And anyone watching might wonder about his trepidation. It's just a kid's bedroom. There's a huge poster of the solar system all across one wall. The carpet is blue, just like the paintwork, only a slightly deeper hue. A desk with a microscope on it, and lots of pens and paper. A few bookshelves, stuffed with texts you'd normally associate with someone a hell of a lot older than the boy on the bed. He looks about four.

'End-o-ther-mic re-ac-tions,' he spells out, and the dark haired woman with her arm around him laughs, and kisses the top of his head.

'Only you would choose this as a bedtime story, sweetie. You sure you don't want me to read it?'

Bruce watches himself shake his head, and cuddle in closer to his mother's side. 'I can do it,' the boy says, and the older version folds his arms across his midsection, and looks away.

'I know you can.' Seeing it from this angle for the first time, the older Bruce doesn't miss the tears that come to her eyes.

He turns to the Ghost, looking both faintly distressed, and faintly embarrassed. The heart-rate monitor beeps again as it hits 150.

'Can we go now? Nothing else is going to happen.'

Not that he remembers. He's sure.

Positive.

"Indulge me," she says, as though he has a choice in the matter.

"Let's give it another minute."

Of course.

His lips press together and he nods once, before pretending to refocus on the scene. He wants to get out of here. But he doesn't every time get what he wants.

'Mom?'

'Yes, sweetie?'

'Will you tell Santa I'm sorry? If you see him.'

'What do you mean?'

'Daddy said I was bad. And I know I won't see him, but if he comes when you're awake, will you tell him for me?'

'Bruce, I-'

Rebecca stops short, and she turns to look at the door. So do both Bruces. The front door has slammed shut somewhere below, and heavy, uneven footsteps can be heard on the hall floor.

The heart-rate monitor beeps. 160.

'Rebecca!?'

Footsteps on the stairs. A stumble, a curse. Bruce turns to look at his own young face, eyes wide, fingers turned white from gripping his mother's shirt so hard.

170.

Footsteps in the hall.

But then the light starts to grow dim. Bruce frowns, and shakes his head. He doesn't...no. He doesn't remember anything else. Does he? He thought that was it.

And if there's more, he doesn't want to see it. The numbers on his wrist are rising, and he backs out of the space where the door was a minute ago, just as the monitor beeps 180.

The hallway again. It's empty.

She follows him out into the hallway, and leans back against the door that closes behind her, with her arms crossed.

It's a moment before she speaks.

"Not exactly hoof beats on rooftops for you, was it?"

He was feeling embarrassed that she'd seen it, never mind that she's not exactly human.

But then she says that, and annoyance sparks in his chest.

'You're the ghost of Christmas Past. I know how this goes, remember? You can't change anything. And I don't need to see stuff I never forgot in the first place.'

He's sure that was all of it. But when he tries to remember what came next - his mother kissing him goodnight maybe, or putting the book away, or whether there were presents in the morning - there's nothing.

'I'd like to go now, please.'

"You think you know how this goes, do you?

"Well, let me tell you something. If you are seeing something in my company, it is something that you need to see.

"That's how it goes."

She reaches out and closes her hand around his wrist again, and in the space of a blink of an eye, they're back in Milliways.

"Try to keep an open mind, Dr. Banner, when you meet my siblings. You just might learn something."

She's fading now. They never stay long, once their jobs are done.

"We're good at what we do. And you're not exactly the first case we've taken on.

"Merry Christmas."

And then she's gone.

Bruce stands alone in his room, thankful she's gone but still feeling the burn of embarrassment, and irritation, on the back of his neck. He stays still, and closes his eyes, and takes one long deep breath after another. The monitor on his wrist keeps beeping - but this time, backwards. 170, 160, 150, 140...

Something he needed to see? Not the incident itself, which he always knew. But the blackness after - he's not sure what that meant. He's pretty sure he doesn't want to know.

A glass of water later, he takes a seat. Maybe he doesn't know exactly how it goes, then. But he does know who comes next.

When she arrives, she's bearing a small plate of cookies and a large glass of milk.

It is a Christmas tradition, after all.

"You look like you could use some sugar, Sugar," says the Ghost of Christmas Present.

The voice is kindly, if rather no-nonsense.

'I don't eat it much,' he says, neutral and cool.

After a moment, he sighs, and his shoulders relax a touch.

'Thank you.'

"That's all right, honey. They'll keep," she says. "Magic, you know."

The Ghost sets the plate and glass on the nearest convenient surface, and her form wavers and shifts.

"We have places to be, anyway," the Ghost adds, checking the knot in his tie and adjusting his hat to a slightly more dapper angle.

He gives Bruce a quick once over as if he wants to ask, You're not going to wear that, are you? But in the end it makes little matter, and even Christmas Eve Night doesn't last forever.

"Are you ready to get this show on the road?"

Bruce meets the once over with the same neutral gaze, waits a minute in pointed silence, and then stands up.

'Why do you all keep changing form?'

"It keeps things fresh. It's never good to get into a rut."

Plus, when you get right down to it, that green bathrobe that comes standard does no one any favors.

In a blink the Ghost has changed again. Smiling graciously, she holds out her arm.

"Now, if we were being proper, it would be you offering your arm to me," she says.

"But, good sir, I trust you will not think me improper if I ask you to take hold of me?"

He doesn't look like the roundabout way of saying, 'hang on to me, so I can take you off somewhere probably horrible' is really appreciated, but he takes her arm anyway.

'Lay on, MacDuff.'

The monitor beeps. 130. He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slow.

'You can't be physically hurt, right?'

"And damned be him who first cries Hold, enough!"

Not that the Ghost is in the business of damning.

"I'm perfectly safe," he assures Bruce.

"Besides," the Ghost adds, "if you think what's in you is frightening, you should see what I keep under my robes."

Ignorance and Want are all the more terrifying because they can creep up beside a person so stealthily.