A woman's job was to be a mother.

Women were the child-bearers, the nurturers, the ones who stayed behind to keep the hearth warm. She'd been taught this, the one lesson she was meant to learn above all others... Her job was to submit. Submit to God. Submit to her husband. Submit to the elders. To the first wives. To everyone. She'd learned it. She knew the words. She could get by when she needed to, but her deepest, darkest secret, the secret that might've ruined everything back home if she'd only stayed around long enough to witness the aftermath... It still plagued her.

Nicki Grant never wanted to be a mother.

The holy day had come and gone, with all it's hedonistic merriment and shockingly little prayer, and Nicki Grant had no children, no family to celebrate for. There were no presents. No carols to be sung. The decorations had been hung by someone else. She'd never wanted to be a mother, but she took pride in her home, pride in her Christmas spirit, and pride in the Hendrickson family feast.

But this year none of it had been her own, and she realized that she'd been a mother for eight years and whether she'd ever wanted to be one or not, now that she wasn't, now that she wasn't even a wife, every last bit of purpose had been stripped from her.

It was late and she was on her hands and knees in the kitchen, scrubbing the baseboards with a panicked kind of haste. She'd already done the dishes, moped the floor and dusted the cabinets. She didn't have a home to keep spotless -- the hut hardly counted, though she'd made it as presentable as she possibly could -- so she'd have to settle for scrubbing someone else's kitchen. She'd been a horrible mother and a horrible wife, but Nicki Grant had always known how to take care of things.

Sitting back on her heels, she dropped the sponge to the floor, tearing the rubber kitchen gloves off with a sigh, and she looked down at the wedding band on her finger. She stared, twisting it 'round on her finger, and wondered what she could get for it in trade.

She had no use for it, anymore.

[[Find her in the compound kitchen well after dark. Now's as fine a time to meet her as any. ST/LT always welcome.]]

For the last thirty minutes of Leonard McCoy's life, he's been witness to something that he knew about in theory, but that he damn well didn't want to have to see. The conversation onboard the Enterprise during the Vulcan rescue mission is as good as burned into his mind and so he knows all about alternate realities and his life being altered before he was even damn well able to change it for himself, but he didn't ever expect to find the proof of it.

Of course, this place isn't exactly the kind that just handholds you and gives you kittens and puppies and chocolate while you relive the best days of your life. McCoy shouldn't have been surprised, and yet, here he is watching ancient holovids (that took him an hour to figure out how to use) and instead of getting something good like the always-enjoyable Gone With The Wind or some of the Westerns he's read about in his history, he's found something a hell of a lot more terrifying.

He's not sure who the hell has put all this together, but there is no doubt in his mind that he's watching an Uhura he knows and the crewmembers he's come to trust and even like in most cases. He's watching all of them except for that pointy-eared bastard and he figures that out soon enough.

He's just not sure he likes the fact that he also realizes at approximately the exact same time that the reason that Spock the Prime has managed to come out living even though he's supposedly dead is because the hobgoblin had gone and taken residence in his brain. His brain, which brought him to the other goddamn issue.

What the hell are you supposed to do when you're met with a counterpart you can't interact with? McCoy wants to ask questions, a dozen questions, a hundred. He wants to know about Jocelyn, about Joanna, about David McCoy, if it's all the same or if it can be avoided, but he can't. So instead, he's left watching a screen and giving vocal opinions every now and then.

"Goddamn it, Jim," he sighs as he stares at an older version of his best goddamn friend on a screen trying to rescue him from some goddamn mental asylum. "You think this'll end well?" It just never does, not in space, because it's...well, the same old rote as always.

[Mildly different canon-puncture than usual. ST & LT very welcome, you can assume this is the first he's watched and they may watch more if wanted]

Logically speaking, this should no longer be a time when her heart hurts.

Temperance knew herself to be more blessed here than she thought she would be at home; even with the parts of her that still longed for her lab friends. She had a family, a real family: the most perfect child to have ever been born, despite the statistical improbability of such a thing, and the most perfectly loving husband-- a husband, despite the statistical improbability of that-- and one she knew wouldn't leave her. For all her fears, Temperance held it as absolute truth that he wouldn't, and whatever force tried to separate them would eventually fail.

Because everything in this universe happens more than once. There is no unique event.

She trusted the universe, even if it pulled him away, to stay true to its very nature, and propel him back. They had Diana, too, a promise in an ocean of possibilities.

Even with all of this very surprising faith, Temperance still found herself standing in the small island cemetery at dusk, bundled up and tending to the graves solemnly, gently. She shoveled the paths, brushed the snow away from each headstone. Her gloved hands lingered over the names on each. No matter what they had done in life, she had taken them through death, knowing their very bones before they were put to rest here. This was the part of the job she still couldn't describe to anyone, how she kept each memory with her. There was no such thing as holding someone's heart or skull in her hands and not taking with it a bit of who they had been.

Temperance put a tiny candle on each headstone, until the little graveyard flickered with lights. She didn't pray; she didn't even remember to think of her parents until she'd finished. "I'll stay here until the lights burn out," she told the graveyard. "Don't worry."

Enjolras really wasn't the reveling, celebrating sort. He'd spent most of the month ignoring the festive surroundings and making his way in and out of the compound with little glancing around, almost affronted at the ridiculous changes the cold weather had brought with it, and though Noël was now all but over, he continued this practice, bundled up for protection from the snow and wind, cheeks pink and hair a bit mussed after a long, thoughtful walk.

He didn't slow as he entered the compound, head bowed slightly as he refused to look at the silly lights and decorations strewn around the rec room as he strode through the doorway, intending to simply scan the bookshelf for anything worthwhile before descending to his room.

The intention was halted quite abruptly, as was Enjolras' forward motion, as he passed through the door. He frowned, suddenly unable to stir more than a step in any direction from the doorway, held in place by some unseen force. "Dieu, qu'est-ce que c'est, maintenant?" he groaned, more resigned than anything else by now. The island's tricks were no more amusing than they had been when he first arrived, but at least they were somewhat predictable now. Hopefully an explanation would occur to him soon, or perhaps someone else might know what had caused this. Meanwhile he leant against one side of the door frame, scowling slightly with his arms folded across his chest.

[Set to late evening on Christmas Day. Anyone want to kiss a cranky Frenchman under the magic mistletoe, or at least tell him what he has to do to get unstuck? :D ST and late tags so very welcome.]

Nick's been busy since he arrived on the island. Once he realized that this isn't a temporary rest stop, that riding the train just brings him back where he started, he set about ensuring that Christmas was going to be a merry one no matter where he spent it and who he spent it with. He has faith in the universe that everything is going to turn out okay.

It was a fair amount of work, and without the kind of assistance he was used to, but the tools were available and the island was full of friendly people who were always ready to give an old man a hand, and so Nick managed to produce everything he needed to and more. No one on the island will go wanting this Christmas.

And so on the morning of the big day, with a cup of tea and a plate of sugar cookies to tide him over, Nick finds a comfortable seat in the rec room and sets his overfull red sack beside him and makes himself available to all comers.


[ st;lt welcome. tag in if you'd like a gift from Ol' Saint Nick. gifts will all be small and handcrafted; this is not the NDPD gift that you will receive later from the island. and give poor Nick's mun a hint as to what you might appreciate; he might know, but I sure don't. :) ]

It’s both the first and last thing I expect to see when I come home. I mean, cemeteries have long been a staple of my life, and I have enough dead friends to warrant my very own. Combine that indelible fact with the knowledge of how this place likes to operate, and it’s a real wonder there aren’t entire rows of tombstones outside my hut to go along with the newly arrived Uncle Ben’s. Still, wonder or not, it catches me off-guard -- enough so that for a moment I can’t help but worry I’m hallucinating from a lack of sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time, of course, but I veer off the well-trudged path to my door to get a better look, anyway, realizing only when the snow stops crunching under my feet that the grave marker’s not as alone as I originally thought, seeing as I’m in the middle of a winter wonderland, but standing on fresh turf. Up close, it’s about as conspicuous as Rhino at a Mensa meeting. Inexplicably, though, it pings a sense of déjà vu I can’t quite pinpoint. I’ve visited his grave more times than I can count, sure, but there’s something different about it now that’s not sitting right -- more so than it being here to begin with.

( Cut for length. )

[Given the timing, ST and LT are definite necessities. And though it probably goes without saying, this isn’t the greatest time to meet him.]

Ygritte, in her way, has finally come to terms with the existence of winters that last only a moon before returning to the heat of summer-- a Summer as deep as Winter is in the North, to be sure.

That's why today can find her constructing, with great care, a building of snow that she's seen in some of the books that appeared with the snow. Even though she knows these books, with their colorful pictures and simpler words, are meant for children, they're still her favorite, and along with learning about a very angry and lecherous looking green man, she's learned about something called igloo.

It wasn't hard to find an empty plas-tick box to make her bricks with, and she's good with the snow anyway.

Even with a hat jammed on her head and her eventual capitulation to the winter jacket instead of furs, her hair streams out and is bright against the snow. Less bright and obvious is the tiger Misha, who takes to the snow as easily as she does. He's nearly buried himself, lying in wait to spring at those who walk nearby.

Ygritte would be more concerned if she thought he was likely to eat anyone. As it is, she's fairly certain he'll just lick them to death.


[Find Ygritte building an igloo or get surprised by a tiger, your choice!]

If he had any choice in the matter, Harry wouldn't have wanted to spend Christmas on the island, but having no choice, he was pretty happy with how things were. He was warm, well-fed, in the company of good friends old and new, and the island looked beautiful. Even though the time of year made him long for home more than ever, he was enjoying the season. It was certainly a huge improvement on this time last year.

He pulled on his field jacket, picked up his cane and limped out of the Officer's Club into the snow, wondering if he could find something interesting going on. He usually could, and although it'd be still be a little while until his foot was completely healed, he'd got enough mobility back to be able to mooch around the island.

As Harry left the club, his eye was caught by the sight of a clump of trees which he could've sworn hadn't been there the day before. Something about them made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end; something about them looked strangely familiar. They certainly looked different. Most of the rest of the island's trees were evergreens, but these were bare-branched, arranged in a rough circle around a clearing.

No, not a clearing. A dell.

"You're fucking kidding me," Harry said, an involuntary shudder running through him.

( Cut for spoilers. )

[Not the best of times to meet him. ST/LT very welcome.]

Even though it was a much smaller and simpler production than any she had ever seen or been involved with before, River was very pleased with the island's first production of The Nutcracker had turned out. It was the last little thing she thought that the island was really lacking in the way of a proper holiday. Not that she'd ever considered the presence of a small wolf wandering through most of the dances strictly traditional before, but on the island they made their own traditions.

She enjoyed it, even though she spent most of it trying to ignore the fact that her baby had finally decided it was a good day to be born. She really appreciated how hard everyone had worked, and she hoped everyone else did, too. From her dance class students who had tried so hard to the very small children that mostly just sat there and gnawed on the edges of their sparkly costumes, everyone added something special to the show, and River hoped they'd be proud of themselves.

She also hoped that they'd all have a nice time afterward with their friends and family, even if she was going to have to miss it. Her baby did not appear to have a dancer's good timing.


[Gathering post for dancers and audience, during and after the performance. See this post for details.]

So maybe the assholes have a point. Pamela's pissed at Bobby...a little. And she's pissed at Greg...sort of. But, she thinks, maybe they do have a point. So she's been cutting back. She's quit carrying the flask with her and has limited getting hammered to the bars and home. It's a pisser, but she's just stubborn enough to want to prove her point. She doesn't have a problem. She doesn't need to drink.

Of course, it leaves her a lot of time without a single damned thing to do. The train was fun for a while; she just rode it around until she was too cold to stand it anymore. Today she's decided to spend her time in the rec room, listening to the fire and dragging her finger along a page...if the shelf will cough something up for her at all. She hangs her coat and walks down the hall, turning through the familiar doorway.

Except...she can't go any farther. She's stuck. Really stuck. She can't move her feet. She can hardly even lean. Panic sets in for a minute and she can feel her heart racing. Her mouth goes dry and she's suddenly really regretting the fact she's got no booze in her system at all.

"Shit," she hisses, straining to get through the doorway, at the mercy of some island trick she's sure. She just doesn't know what it is.


[It's the cruel and right thing to do to trap the blind chick under the mistletoe muwahaha. Someone come gt her free. She's sober...for once.]

Today was not a great day.

He'd gone on patrol with Max--and the wolf was almost as tall as he was now--and somewhere along the way, he'd stumbled across the cliff he'd caught Carolyn diving off of. The memory caused a powerful crash of nostalgia. He hadn't been able to shake its vestiges all day. The smallest, most absurd things reminded him of Carolyn--and of others, just as gone as she.

He'd finished up the lok'nel especially quickly today, due to it. It hadn't particularly helped.

He went to the rec room in the desperate hope that it might head-off memories. There weren't any particular songs that reminded him of Carolyn. Its self indulgent songs might set him straight. Or the Christmas cheer--of which there'd been none of while Carolyn was around.

Which was a shame. Carolyn'd have liked it, he thought. Except for the part where he wasn't supposed to be thinking about her.

Nope. Today was not a great day.

The jukebox, for once, did not immediately change from its Christmas jingle. That alone earned a wary stare. Oh yeah. He was walking into a trap.

The trap became apparent immediately. The bookcase was bare except for one tin, marked in bold print: STARGATE SG-1: THE LINE IN THE SAND. The preface alone told him exactly what it was, and he knew where this was leading. The movie caught him unawares once, but not this time.

He burst into sudden, absurd laughter. The whole day had led up to this. So he'd come here, and be tantalized by a tiny snippet of home--of Carolyn living life without him. He wasn't about to wander blindly into the trap.

He was going to walk in willingly.

He took the reel down from the shelf, and stared down at its metallic cover for a few long moments. Maybe this was why he'd wanted to come. To see her. To hear her voice. Maybe it would help. Not likely, but he could be self-indulgent. It'd already used its one shot on him, he could handle anything else it showed.

Loading up the reel into the projector probably wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done on the island, but he couldn't seem to reason against it.

What he didn't expect, however, was that in the entire reel, she wasn't even glimpsed. He didn't expect to see himself sitting just as he remembered--well, maybe a bit less dignified than he remembered--telling Sam not to give up. Telling her that nonsensical speech about faith and...

...And he remembered when he believed every word of it.

[OOC: This reel, of the season 10 episode Line in the Sand is conspicuously missing the scenes with Vala and Tomin interacting on the Ori ship, because it's not for Cam to pry into Vala's relationship with Tomin. Anyone who pleases can tag in, the earlier in the episode the more nostalgic he'll be, the later, the more thoughtful. Or even come in afterward. One could even come in and catch him leaving under the mistletoe if they like.]

Lurking in the shadows had a sort of ingrained appeal, both professionally and by hobby. For over a month Graverobber had, for the most part, been leaning back out of the immediate public eye and allowing the situation to wash over him in a haze of information, intriguing little nodules of data fitting together and painting a picture that made the microscopic cells in his body squirm with delight. Most people underestimated the power of silence, and even the most outstanding of individuals could be near invisible when they knew how to keep their mouths shut tight and their eyes open. The endless chatter of the bar patrons, the mothers cooing in the kitchen, the gossip by the bookshelf were absorbed and processed by the man who waited out of the way. It was a scheme that had always worked, be in on the street where people walked by without even seeing him or standing just feet away, eyes averted. And considering himself and the new locals that was quite the accomplishment.

Today, he was taking a rest from eavesdropping and people watching, and with the magical snowfall had decided to have a little personal time outside of the caves where he'd made his temporary home. With night fallen he was wide awake, but with the sky of open stars and the glistening snow on the ground he spent the first few hours nearly blinded by the whiteness as most nights. His boots crunched on the ground, and his face and throat were chilled by the air. He passed human and animal tracks of all kinds, reindeer and snow angels, even the occasional snow fort as he made his way through the magically snow covered island wonderland. The cheeriness of it was both disturbing and amusing, and an eyesore at that, but he just snorted and continued along until he found an area by the path that hadn't already been desecrated to the fullest extent of the word.

He stood in that clearing and stared down at the sparkling untouched snow, and he knew he was grinning even before his lips took shape.

The snow man's beginning stemmed from the boredom that rolled around after one AM. What had escalated from that point however was nothing short of a fully detailed, snow Repo massacre. Snowy bodies in every state of dismemberment and amputation, headless and wide open, some with extreme angular cheekbone augmentation that stretched back behind their heads and one or two missing a breast where another had a spare. His favorite however, stood in the center, tall and erect while the other frozen pictures lay in twisted, writhing poses, mouths gaping and carved eyes wide. She was tall and slender, carved and chiseled with the care of his knife to the point of artistic mastery. But even with the crude snow as the canvas, if one squinted, they may even see the sneer of superior disgust Graverobber had tried to capture.

"Amber Sweet." He murmured, cutting away snow to make small slender shoulders against the round bulk of the snow woman turned sculpture. "Amber Sweet is addicted to the knife..." And he cut away another long piece making her into something different, much like her namesake.

(Timed for around 2 or 3 in the morning. He's in a good mood and everyone is free to join in or ask him to get his head checked. ;) )

Things were a little more slow going in general for Ellie. She knew her limits in terms of activity, and she had to be thankful for the train that had appeared in general for giving her easy passage from place to place. It sometimes took longer to get up to the Compound, but it beat trying to walk in the snow from her hut to it.

She also knew she would've been much too tired to be making what would likely be early Christmas gifts in the kitchen had she not taken it. There was only so many things someone could give on a holiday like this, and Ellie knew she could never go wrong making food. With the appearance of a good amount of chocolate, she decided cookies would be perfect for the people she was making them for.

That it didn't take too much effort on her part beyond the initial mixing part certainly was a bonus.

It was mostly a waiting game once she made the batter. With her second batch in, she decided to take a small break as she waited for them to cook. Leaning against the counter, she sampled one of the ones from the first batch, her other hand resting on her now quite rounded abdomen. She swore she felt the baby kick the moment she swallowed the piece of cookie she bit off. It made her smile a little.

"Don't get too used to these," she warned with a quiet laugh, liking to think the movement had been a sign of approval. "Though I'm glad you like them, too."

She took another bite after she spoke, waiting for the sound of the timer to go off. She knew it'd only be a few more minutes before what was in the oven was done, so she didn't see much of a point finding a seat to sit in.

[Timed to the afternoon!]

Winter solstice, and the weather had done exactly what we'd speculated, but the wedding? Definitely still on.

There were about ten different things I needed to be doing. I still had no idea what was happening with the food, the dress needed to be altered just enough to not drag in the slush, then decorations and finalizing the venue, and christ, I had really dug myself into a hole. It wasn't that Nate wasn't helping, he was bearing half the work, for that matter; it was more that with planning things, you always thought you had more time than you actually did. Then when it came down to a few days before, you were shit outta luck.

I might have been procrastinating a little before, though--there were a few extra Christmas cookies in the kitchen. Possibly a little fudge. And I might have taught myself to knit because all of the available hats were unwearable.

So what was I doing, four days out? I was digging through the goddamned clothes box to see if I could actually get matching ties for Brad and Adam, or at the very least ones that were remotely similar in color scheme. Cursing had not worked, and neither had physical violence.

"You're a lovely box. All squared off at the corners...you don't look your age at all."

...yeah, in case you couldn't tell, cajoling was not working either, and to make matters worse, it was humiliating to even try. I took a few steps back, considered the tie in my hand, then addressed the box again. "I'll give you a cookie if I get another Ralph Lauren in red. Doesn't even have to be the same red."

Well, it was red. It was Ralph Lauren. And it was a knit square-end that looked like it had been last worn in 1978.

"Oh, that's just bullshit," I said, and wished the tie had a little more weight to it so that I could dropkick it back.

New threads only up to the 24th please or I'll get confused with wedding stuff, thankee!

Rickon, for once, was mostly behaving himself. He was not terrorising anyone, destroying anything, or crying, but sitting in a corner of the kitchen happily scribbling away on large sheets of paper with the markers Susan had found in the rec room, and most importantly, he was happy. This was a pleasure that happened far too seldom, and luckily it came at a time that Susan could take good advantage of it. She'd made bread earlier, and it was sitting out to cool before she sliced it. As soon as that came out of the oven, she put in some potatoes to bake. Nothing seemed more delicious to her that moment on a snowy cold day than a piping hot jacket potato with lots of butter and a big bowl of vegetable soup.

Then she put the soup on to simmer and set to work making dough for biscuits to decorate. She set aside a few of the first batch for Rickon to "decorate" for himself, but the ones she embellished with fanciful icing designs she kept well out of his reach. On the countertop she set out some undecorated ones with bowls of icing and various sprinkles so that people could decorate their own if they were so inclined.

"Mmmm," said Rickon, from his spot in the corner of the kitchen. He had abandoned his markers and paper in favour of "decorating" a biscuit, and there were splotches of bright red icing all over his face and sprinkles on his nose. No icing or sprinkles had actually made it to the biscuit.

"Is it good?" Susan asked, trying not to laugh.

"Mmmm," Rickon repeated, running to her for a hug, leaving sticky red handprints all over her skirt.

Tomorrow would mark the day she had been on the island for four years, and she couldn't think of a better way to spend it than with her son, sticky handprints and all.


[today's menu is vegetable soup, baked potatoes, and Christmas cookies, accompanied by a sticky toddler on a sugar high! whee.]

Adam Carter knows a lot about a lot of things. He got his first at Cambrige, played first XV Rugby, rowed, ran. He speaks Arabic with no detectable accent. There weren't many people at 6 who knew more about the Middle East than him. He's withstood torture. He's deprogramed bombs.

None of that means anything in the face of trying to sort out Christmas presents for a twelve year old girl.

As you get older, the number of Christmas presents you expect decreases exponentially. Adam's got one present sorted out for Sarah and that's enough. Coraline, though. Children expect. Adam knows that Sarah's been collecting things from the clothes box for weeks which is for the best, because if there's something that Adam categorically isn't equipped for, it's choosing clothes for someone Coraline's age (and don't even get him started on the kind of underwear that girls that age want).

Today, he's resorting to glitter.

He's making Coraline a necklace, a collection of different sized, different coloured beads strung together. At least, that's the theory. Today, all he's doing is painting and applying glitter, newspaper spread across one of the tables in the rec-room.

This much, at least, he thinks that he can handle.
Probably.

ooc: adopted Daddy attempting to make jewellery. Creative input would be very much appreciated.

Once (and it seemed a lifetime ago), there had been a rumour that snow never fell in Camelot unless Arthur gave the word. It had been snowing on the day that she came to Camelot, riding, and she had met Arthur in the wood and he had told her that there was never a more congenial spot for a little happy-ever-aftering. For a time, she had believed him. Still, it seemed like Tabula Rasa might take Camelot's crown at least once a year, when the snow was falling.

Her home was a minature castle. Pretty Jenny had thought that she had long left Camelot behind her.

They were making for the compound. Ygraine had the wolf in her on her Mother's side but Jenny had her wrapped up safe against the cold despite that. Sitting up high on Lorica's back, they picked their way through the snow, beneath the twinkling lights. Jenny had a fur-lined hood pulled up high over her black hair and she was singing as they went.

"The rain may never fall till after sundown. By eight, the morning fog must disappear. In short, there's simply not a more congenial spot for happily-ever-aftering than here..."

Maybe not Camelot. Maybe no longer.

She paused, tugging Lorica to a halt and tipped her head back, her hood slipping, to look up at the sky.

"Do you think it will snow more today, Ygraine?" she asked.

ooc: find Jenny and Ygraine anywhere along the path to the compound. Lorica is a large, white horse, so the whole package looks something like a fairytale.

On the first of the month, the island had transformed Randall Flagg's little ten by ten cube of concrete into a whimsical winter wonderland. Walls that looked like gingerbread were accented with frosting and gumdrops and licorice but were most assuredly still hard as a rock-- probably they were only a glammer for the real wall beneath. It had also provided a pair of red-striped prisoner pajamas that he wasn't about to be caught dead in, and a stocking that was in danger of bending the nail it had been hung on, thanks to the softball-sized chunk of coal resting in the toe.

It was all hilarious.

The cell bars, though, had changed from sturdy iron rods to massive peppermint sticks, and until this very afternoon, Flagg hadn't had a moment alone to check out their structural integrity. It had been ten, perhaps fifteen minutes since he'd heard the guard leave. There had been a short exchange at the door, small talk with the incoming guard, but then, inexplicably, he hadn't heard the new sentry get farther than a few steps into the building before turning around again and leaving. He walked across the cell to the barred entrance, looking down the short hall in either direction for a sign of the good island officers, and finding none. He wondered how long he had.

He put his hand on one of the bars, rapped his knuckles against it, and then, tentatively, leaned forward and licked it. They were actually candy. And maybe there was an iron bar beneath it, but if there wasn't...

He dropped to a crouch and kicked one of the bars, hard, with his boot. The candy cane resisted, shuddering a little from the blow but not breaking, not cracking, not even chipping. There was the obvious other option.

Just then, the door opened, letting in a cold wind and a gauzy drift of snow. Flagg's tongue went back in his mouth, childlike fantasies about escaping capture by eating his weight in sugar collapsed suddenly, and he was on his feet in a blink.

"Oh, god," he said, as the figure came into the light. "It's you."

Cuthbert smiled thinly and shook the snow off his coat, stamped it off his boots. "Don't even start," he said, barely bothering to give Flagg a second glance. He dropped his mittens on the floor, bent to pick them up again, and crammed them irritably into his pockets.

"You're late, kid," Flagg replied with a pert smile, tapping his wrist. "What happened? Get caught up cleanin' your gun?"

"Well, if you can believe it, I didn't exactly run all the way here. Decorations look nice. Shame about that stocking. Y'know, that's what Santa gives babbies here for misbehaving--"

"No shit, Sherlock. Not everyone's got a case of culture lag like you and Albert."

"Alain."

"Whatever. Larry, Curly and Moe. And that's an insult to the Stooges."

"What?"

"I rest my case."

It really wasn't worth it, Bert reminded himself, and sat down on a stool not far down the hall, his back turned to Flagg, who didn't seem interested in ending the conversation.

"Aw, c'mon, Cuthbert. Don't be that way. We have so much in common. I could tell you stories 'bout your dinh that'd curl your hair--"

At that, Bert grabbed whatever was in his pocket-- at that moment, a toy harmonica which he'd found in a hollow down at the Hamlet-- and chucked it with full force at Flagg's head. He had good aim; it bounced off his target's forehead and hit the ground with a clatter. Flagg swore loudly, then bent to pick it up.

"Give it back, please," Bert said, wishing he'd had a little foresight. He'd actually been wanting to learn how to play that. Flagg didn't budge. "Or I'll see about extending your sentence for petty theft." It was an empty threat; Vimes' eyebrow would shoot right off his face if Bert tried to explain that.

Flagg scoffed loudly. "Oh please. You threw it at me. Police brutality."

Cuthbert opened his mouth to retort, but he was interrupted by the first jagged, wheezing notes of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

[ Please, please come distract Bert, Flagg, or ideally both of these guys before they kill each other. Late tags are always okay-- I know that a lot of people are busy with holiday things and Yuletide, so please, if you'd like to tag, go ahead and do so even if it will be slowtime. I don't mind at all. Your pup can be in the area and hear arguing/terrible harmonica, be on their way to visit Bert on his shift, visiting Flagg (lol small demographic there) or an IPD member checking in at the post. PS: the harmonica once belonged to a Miss Scout Finch. :'3 ]