Archive of Our Own ^beta

STAVE I. Amid Relationships

Whether anyone really wants to admit it, there is a reality to the pitch afterglow of a haunting (or several) that would render anyone a little at a loss. Maybe not at first. And maybe not forever. But at some point it registers, in a creeping way. That is all to say, Ebenezer Scrooge found himself sneezing often in January, had the sniffles all throughout February, and by March was feeling terribly under the weather altogether. There were more than enough reasonable excuses for this behavior. Firstly, it's London. Favorable to grey skies and cold that bites. Grown adults out and about missed a crucial lesson in covering their mouths when coughing, besides. As much as Scrooge's heart has turned from stone to sponge, he still has the common sense to cover his mouth with an elbow.

"Enjoy the night out for me, Freddie," he laments. The receiver fizzles and crackles in what Scrooge believes to be a sigh.

"For God's sake, Uncle, you better get out of that bed," Fred scolds. "Do I have to come over there and drag you out myself?"

Scrooge feels woefully called out. His sheets are bedraggled, dark satin blending with a deep maroon, fuzzy bathrobe. A box of tissues hangs limply in his free hand. He is lit (rather hideously, he has to imagine) in flashing grey and white courtesy of the television on his nightstand, set to some random channel, he didn't bother checking. All he lacks is a tub of ice cream to crown him as the world's oldest post-breakup teenage girl. The thought makes him laugh, he can't resist it.

"Well, damn." Fred, in no effort to actually cover the phone on his end, confides loudly to another party, "Clara, babe, the old man's finally lost it. Maybe it's time to call the ward."

"Oh, come off it," Scrooge says with no real heat. There is a tinkle of feminine laughter on Fred's end.

"It's nearly the weekend. Come with us for a Saint Patty's shindig, bear the next day's hangover with the lights down low in your office, and bask in the glorious weekend to follow. Thursday is the new Friday, I say."

Persistency that feels like old times. Not quite in a good way. But he fears anyone getting ill too much. After all, his New Year's was something to remember. Valentine's Day was no slouch. He never thought in his middle age he'd be such a party animal, but perhaps even good things must be taken in doses. Fred, though defeated, concedes he won't harangue him any longer, to feel better, and that if he changes his mind he will be welcome at the bar with open arms. To think—a pub crawl, at his age!

You’re not all that old, he thinks to himself. Nonetheless he feels it. Fred does his best to not make him feel so, but in turn it reinforces the very idea. His nephew includes him quickly and happily to any festivity and simultaneously remains adamant over Scrooge attending check-ups and physical therapy appointments long put off due to stinginess and, frankly, laziness. Scrooge bears it and lets himself feel old if only to no longer hear Fred mention the dangers of developing hyperkyphosis.

The television, gone ignored, is shut off. His house is full of many new amenities now: a CRT in his bedroom and in his living room; a functional kitchen with new pots, pans, and cooking utensils; an answering machine he doesn’t know how to work; floor lamps where it had once been shadowed and empty. A warmth is forming. Scrooge, learning how to make a house a home, doesn’t know if he can feel the heat from those coals yet. He waits eagerly for home's arrival.

“Oh, get up, already,” he says to himself. And he does with a groan, sulky when he must listen to himself. He changes into an outfit considered acceptable and turns the television back on when he notices the quiet. He flips to the weather channel and determines his outerwear. The volume is left loud enough so the sound follows him down the stairwell and out the door, umbrella in tow.

The decorations down winding Lime Street tout warm yellow lights and ample green banners, seasonal garland along the rails and a healthy stream of rain as the topper. Were it just a few degrees colder there would at least be some whimsy in the snowflakes. But tonight London colors itself petulant and leave none but freezing cold droplets. Scrooge himself is bundled, and those rowdy men out and about are surely reddened and warmed by their Guinness regardless of their choice of clothes, so all parties involved pay no mind.

He doesn’t head for his nephew. He heads for Cornhill, to St. Paul’s, where he’s been making his weekly trek for some months now. The baroque architecture, vast with gilded domes, make him feel small in a comforting way. He goes not for himself, and doesn’t always stay for a full service.

There are two great objectives he must fulfill. He lights two candles, and with bad knees he kneels in a pew and prays.

One name is said in love, greeted tenderly with a hug of remembrance, and let off to wander until his next visit. Fan.

The other is said with hands clasped tight enough to crack his knuckles, sick with fervor and a hope on standby. Jacob.

When his lungs threaten to constrict and cause a coughing fit that is his sign it is time to go. He hurls one last thought toward his old partner who is seven years dead and goes to expel his respiratory system’s unpleasant obstructions outside the front entrance. He worries one day he may black out from the intensity of these fits. An incoming churchgoer asks if he needs a hospital at the visual of him bent and clutching his chest. He promises he’s fine, opens his umbrella and keeps walking.

It's a window of calm, a sparse drizzle, before he knows the weather will pick up once more. So surprise takes hold of him at a crossing that sees a familiar sight beneath a dripping awning.

"Lucie!"

The past life—the Before—a dull and rusted side of the coin splotched in verdigris, or the one of Now, clean and silver, show no difference in sole concern of Scrooge's sharp memory. His log of names is vast, expansive, and often against his will. Here it is no curse, yet he cannot help but to embed it with worry. The young girl he has walked by time and again was greeted less frequently with the changing season, as there was no need for her to be selling all manner of things—matches, pins, extra buttons for your coat and laces for your boots— here at the corner. Scrooge's generosity extended to her family past the Christmas season, enough to get them on their feet with comfort, and the child out of the cold.

So went the plan. Lucie-Mae Barrett greets him in that cold anyway, on the slick pavements, out of old rags and into new ones. Admittedly of colors more cheerful. Beads of different styles and lengths hang around her neck over a rumpled white blouse. The only extra coverage is a red and black plaid vest and leggings beneath an asymmetrical skirt of ruffled mesh. Her black cap on sideways is bedazzled with gaudy crystal flowers. "Care for a match?" The young girl advertises with one held out.

"Lucie-Mae," he says again. "How could you be out here again? Here, here. Under my umbrella. There we are. The forecasts warned of rain."

Her shoulder are tensed to her ears and she runs her hands up and down her arms to warm herself. This indicates to Scrooge she was sorely ready to stuff those matches back into her bag at the first opening, which she does so quickly under the umbrella's cover.

"Yeah," she says sheepishly. "Guess now that I think about it, sticking to my pitch on a night like this is absurd."

"Indeed," Scrooge huffs a laugh. He asks once more why she's out selling at all. She looks at her scuffed boots. The plink, plank, plunk of droplets make more urgent contact over their cover. Awkwardly he herds her down the sidewalk and they keep moving. As they move, she speaks.

"It's awful embarrassing to say, Mr. Scrooge. But I don't know what happened to all of our expenses. We had groceries and goods and all these new things. The rest went missing. So we sold off the things we'd bought. And now I'm s'posed to sell the odds and ends. I already sold so many of my nicest things."

"Missing!" he exclaims. "All of those goods. What of the coat I gifted you?"

Lucie frowns, forlorn. "That's gone, too. It’s why I'm out all damp and dank." She stops in place and begins to cry. Scrooge, who distractedly kept walking with furious intent, does a double take and nearly slips in an about-face returning to be her cover. She notices none of it, balled fists rubbing at her eyes. The rain, in perhaps a show of solidarity, picks up as her tears fall. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't wanna give it away. It was so nice and warm."

The few passersby on the street opposite spare Scrooge a damning look and he becomes wholly aware of the perceived scenario. There, slightly hunched but appearing to tower over the small tearful child all while he's stewing in a growing anger not at Lucie, but the cruel turn of events. It's written all over his lowered brow and barely concealed curl of his lip, all which fall and turn to the secondary emotion harbored within—helplessness—upon being perceived as some rotten handler. He mouths some version of, No, no! It's not me! with a dismissive hand wave and aggressive shake of his head. The passersby move along no more changed in opinion.

He is unsure of his role here. So he sputters thinking of any one thing to say. But none can undo these troubles at this very instant, nor make it better. I could, perhaps, with another show of generosity, he thinks, but apparently that act wrought Lucie's misfortune anyway.

He ponders what, then, encapsulates generosity. Were it a one-size-fits-all the answer would come to Scrooge easier. He likes to believe that all you give, in love and in money, can be enough. It should be enough. Yet here they stand in generosity's wake.

"Now, now," he intones. With a wooden pat to her head he tries once more to usher her gently forward. "No more of that yet. A nice, hot meal will do the trick. Then we can get this all sorted out. There's always a way, always a way."

She wipes the back of her fingerless glove across her red eyes and runny nose. With the other hand she reaches for Scrooge's and he takes it delicately. The deluge comes to its most unforgiving as they arrive at their destination, the one he already intended before this diversion, but with haste they do not suffer long.

Every pub was going to be bedlam—this one less so. It's the kind Scrooge has hoarded for himself, on an odd street and overlooked by other more raucous establishments. Thus, less preferred by younger merrymakers. Only those like him who wish not to socialize but wish not to go home.

At the entrance Scrooge shakes out his umbrella. Lucie, who without proper outerwear got caught in the crossfire of raindrops sent upwind, shakes herself out like a dog. Her cap is sent flying but Scrooge manages to snatch it midair. He disguises a laugh at the silly behavior as a cough. He hangs his things at the doorway and requests a blanket or scarf that can be spared. A kindly girl in training, still too young to handle any of the establishment’s alcohol, lends a shawl; Scrooge tips her generously.

"Now," Scrooge starts with a clear of his throat. They sit at a small booth near a window outlooking the rain-darkened cobblestone. Lucie blows on the hot cocoa the young girl Valentine made for her and they wait eagerly for 'something hot and hearty', the bare minimum request Scrooge gives instead of having to actually think and decide on anything at this hour. Lucie does not complain. "Tell me what's happened."

It's simple, really. A long-winded, sullen story from a child that boils down to a father with no regard for finances. A man on his own that's foolish with money—a fool nonetheless, but a fool only for himself. That's what a more cynical Scrooge would think of. This Scrooge still subscribes to the sentiment but no longer with such schadenfreude.

But a man foolish as this, with mouths to feed, is something much more harmful. Lucie mentions cards. Poker. Avenues for betting she knows are relevant details for an adult, but she can't grasp fully as to the part it plays. But Scrooge knows it all too well. Not from first-hand experience. His line of work has seen a lot of this form of clientele. Like those past clientele, indications of an unhealthy pattern become very clear in how she describes how things were looking up for a while. Changes for the better, at last sticking. Then they don't. He makes Lucie pause her story so she doesn't choke on her food. She eats rapturously—Scrooge orders her another cocoa.

"You poor dear," Scrooge tuts. "All that stuff taken from you. Even your new clothes."

"I still have some of those, at least,” she says with a shrug.

“Why not wear those than this?”

She fixes him with a puzzled expression. “I am. I’m wearing new threads right now."

Scrooge returns her look. He catches himself from calling them rags, but still remarks, "Truly? This is the fashion?"

"It's all the rage," Lucie confirms with amusement. She takes no offense to his bewilderment, merely giggles.

"Things are quite different from my day." Scrooge takes off his glasses and rubs at tired eyes and feels worn at the passage of time. "I don't understand the youths. God bless you all. I do not understand it." And still she continues to confound him. "What's this now!"

"Have you ever tried it?" She holds a chip half-covered in whip cream from where she's dipped it in her cocoa. 

"I should think not," Scrooge condemns, but the scandalized demeanor is unserious. "Chips in chocolate... Those two shouldn't meet! They live in entirely separate realities."

"No, they both live in my mouth." She takes a bite and Scrooge makes a show of looking offended to make her laugh. He succeeds. She dips another and presents it in a business-like manner. "Mr. Scrooge, plain old chips are a thing of Yesterday. I'm holding the chip of Today. Haven't you ever craved the salty and the sweet all at once? Look no further! Here, try a free sample."

“Oh, that’s quite okay, I’m full.”

“It’s one bite,” she reasons, holding it closer to him.

"Ah ah! But what is it called?” he stalls. “If you're selling me a new invention, it needs a name first."

"Hmm..." She looks at the chip, then the cup, then Scrooge. Then the chip again. With pride she says: "The 'Chip N' Whip'!"

"Chip N' Whip!" Endeared by the quick-wittedness, he barks a laugh. "A thing like that!"

"And so you'll be taking a sample, sir?"

"Well, how can I refuse after such genius marketing?" Scrooge sighs. He takes it from her with a pinch of his fingers and examines it with fear. Grimacing, he accepts and takes a bite. “The taste of the future,” Scrooge marvels. “It tastes terrible.”

The two debate and laugh and linger on the idea of leaving when the time must come, both feeling leagues better than when the night started. The weather eases on their way back. Scrooge holds up the umbrella anyway to keep the pesky mist of drizzle at bay. Arriving on her street, he gives her the amount of earnings her father expected so she can return home. He gives her some extra and with a wink says to keep that for herself.

"I can't thank you enough," Lucie says, still wearing the shawl to keep her dry.

"Nonsense. These streets are no place for a young girl who should be safe and warm at home. I will thank you though, for keeping me company tonight. I was..." He puts his hands in his pockets, a recurrent nervous tic to combat discomfort from socialization's unpredictability. "Well. A bit aimless."

The drizzle turns to drops again over their heads but he does not yet register it. He is startled by a quick hug from her. "You're a very good man, Mr. Scrooge," Lucie says. She walks in the direction of her house and Scrooge calls out to her. He does his best approximation of a healthy jog. He still manages to be out of breath.

"Wait!" He holds the umbrella out to her.

"I can't take this, Mr. Scrooge! It's not a terrible walk from here, I promise."

"I have many more at home. Please, you'd be doing me a favor."

Hesitantly, she takes it from him. "Thank you," she says warmly. Then she's off.

Scrooge pulls his collar up and heads back to his manor regretful he didn’t take his hooded jacket. He anticipates that next time he sees her in lousy weather she will have the sense to bring the umbrella with her. Next time—he hopes there will not be a next time.

The rain turns wicked upon his returning journey. He enters his living quarters with hair plastered to his face and limbs shakier than normal. He takes Monday and Tuesday off from an awful chill.

“A good morning to you, Mr. Scr—ah, Eb. I’m unsure which you are when discussing work over your home answering machine, haha. It’s a very good morning with good news from Jim and I. First: we’ve been permitted to resume renovation. We can make those back rooms something prettier or tear ‘em to all hell for wider space, but that’s a decision we can come to together. Second and lastly: our batch of old clientele have been sorted. Finally! We could’ve taken the easy route and just sent them out with a kick and a ’good luck’ but you gave each one as much of a leg to stand on as possible. So… cheers to you, Eb. Hope to see you in tomorrow.”

STAVE II. Hull the Stems

The businessmen Scrooge knows are encouraged by the housing boom and the lowered unemployment rates. “May just be the youth have stopped whining because mum and dad have the sense now to kick out freeloaders. A little wakeup call is good as any for work ethic.”

Fred’s friends complain of the wages their employers refuse to pay them. “We do double the work for triple the time, and see none of that in our paychecks. The boss treats the little guy like shite and we let him! No wonder nurses are striking; I say we take a page from their book.”

Scrooge does not keep the former of these groups in good company anymore. They have made well known their opinions on the firm’s diversion from Scrooge & Marley's original vision. It’s unsound! It’s foolish! It’s not in your best interest! And other such variations.

The fact remains: Scrooge has a damn good head for numbers. It will not bloom as quickly, or as profitably, as will pinching every last penny and screwing over any human being possible to receive the most gratifying personal payout. But, not very many things will yield instantaneous and fleeting self-satisfaction for leeches as will sucking the very life out of common man. Bob Cratchit was there for when Scrooge relayed that sentiment on a phone conference. His applause had to be excused for commotion of their office’s renovation.

From the first of January a rebrand was conceived at Fred's New Year's party, the possibilities endless and the champagne free-flowing. Bob and Scrooge flowed freely in conversation thanks to the merry concessions, and the merrier the bubbly made them the better and more exciting every idea sounded. Jim was soon roped in and the three shot out impassioned concepts one by one with Bob as self-appointed notetaker. It all felt so successful in the New Year haze.

All managed to convene a healthy forty-eight hours after the party's end, when hangovers subsided and natural light didn't still burn their eyes like the surface of the sun. Scrooge urged his clerk to show him the fruits of their brainstorm session and, solemnly, was handed forward a napkin with a bulleted list of illegible nonsense. Some because the bullet points were smeared, others because they were simply stupid. Scrooge laughed long and hard and recalled the calls of, 'Write that down, write that down!' that had preceded every bullet. That napkin hangs pinned to the corkboard in his half-functional office.

They went scorched earth. Mildewed rugs were done away with, rickety chairs broken with vigor, windows cleaned with care and with hopes to add sturdy shades that will always remain open during office hours. Scrooge got to smash an old desk with a hammer to his clerks’ whoops and cheers. With Bob’s help, Tiny Tim got to rip out a section of wallpaper to even more raucous cheering.

It is a night and day difference in the bluntest allegory possible. Each square meter of Scrooge & Marley had been constricted by deep dark wooden trim, banisters, and doorframes, condemning the very presence of anyone bothering to enter. The littlest amount of space possible to house Scrooge himself and his clerks when there were perfectly usable rooms, but to Scrooge it wasn’t worth the extra rent.

They are swerving far from collection, now toward counsel. Scrooge is handling the nitty-gritty but finds it wisest to minimize his presence in their firm's repurposing. A face like Bob Cratchit at the helm of that, to all the common folk, is more encouraging. Scrooge's own would be akin to a malicious joke. 'For all of your accounting needs!' that mascot shouts, 'the rabble laid low by the great and terrible Scrooge, fear not! We hereby advise you on how to reobtain the financial means for any loan, house, or business I did first destroy! And you need not thank us, for you are so welcome!'

Bob brings him back to earth with a pat on the back and a question about paint swatches. They all look the same to him in the way that all would be far more cheerful than the current aesthetics. All of the neglected, peeling wallpaper has been ripped out leaving a drab gray wall behind. They now aim for something in cream or in eggshell. Pastel green, too, is in consideration. He leaves it in his employees' hands, tells him it's of no matter to him, truly. Bob tentatively chooses green for the snug lobby and Jim chooses cream for the offices. Scrooge thinks they're great choices.

So much extra space. Scrooge would be lying if he said he isn't intimidated at the prospect of filling that space. The firm is small as is. There were few that the Scrooge of Then could trust to do their jobs and do it efficiently— and, well. The less employees to pay the better.

Scrooge of Then, from the Before- this is how he's come to understand it. There is no way to confirm if this intentional slice down the middle of his history is the truest way to perceive a transformation like his. The priests; the philosophers; the scientists; they would all have vastly different answers on the matter. One thing they would exchange is a look when given context that amounts to a fanatical ghost story and a closing statement of 'Trust me, it happened'. Yes, he is pretty sure even the priest would be skeptical.

Strangely enough— fittingly enough— the one he in his heart knows would be keen to believe it is Bob Cratchit. He will not tell Bob Cratchit. Friends trust one another. Scrooge must trust this one is not weary of the permanency of his life's shift. There is no Then for Scrooge to return to without kicking and screaming.

Scrooge of Then, Scrooge of Here, Scrooge of There and Now and Never and Always. It's irrelevant. There may just be Now and all the rest are banished. Or, the more frightening and still likely option: they are all harbored within. Broken off into smaller pieces, hidden for a scavenger hunt. Revilement in the marrow. Grudge beneath the fingernails. Scorn hidden in the gums. All to creep in and up until it is too late. Scrooge checks himself in the mirror at morning and at night for these signs of decay and can't trust his eyes are being truthful. For nothing's there but him.

Throughout this week’s fatigue in bed that anxiety is his lone dwelling. He cannot keep leaving Bob and Jim to fend for themselves, capable as they are. Scrooge chastises Bob Cratchit who insists on those days he and Jim come to his residency to keep the project moving. It is all well and good in thought. Scrooge, however, would rather languish in solitude lest the mood turn blue. He is of no use straight out of bed. It takes him longer and longer to recover from his dreams.

It is the same every time: lonely and frozen with not a single indication of life. Shrubbery, street signs, lampposts, clacks of dress shoes on pavement. Absent. Present in the Nowhere is Marley.

“My friend!” Scrooge shouts every time. “Why do you return? What have I done?”

Marley does not answer. Scrooge is too far to see his dead partner’s eyes. There is too much fog and the obscuration of a blue light's glow.

"I have been praying for you, Jacob. Is there atonement yet? Please, can you feel it?"

Scrooge goes to him every time. His legs are heavy, the walk no better than a trek through the mud. The chains at his ankles clink with each step. The distance between the two does not grow smaller.

Scrooge ask his questions, over and over. Marley will not answer. He never does.

In his much preferred waking life he tends to a garden newly growing. An odd family.

Fred does the same in the most literal sense. His nephew's zest for life carries over into his ever-changing hobbies. Too excited to ever focus on one. The latest hobby, borderline obsession, is fruits and vegetables. Fred is convinced of his ability to develop a green thumb with their limited backyard space. The cherry tomatoes he tried to cultivate were a failure so he has compromised with Clara for an herb garden.

Fred still searches for a hobby he and Scrooge can share together. They do not need one, Scrooge is entirely contented with just his presence. But he will not deter Fred; he's flattered by the efforts to make the most of this rekindled relationship. So far Scrooge has acted as sous chef when helping cook dinner (Fred and Clara handle the actual cooking— Scrooge prepping, away from the stove, is the safest for everyone) and is proud of his ability to hull a strawberry cleanly with a paring knife.

His niece, Clara, is a shrewd thing, and none too quick to jab at Scrooge for a lark, suspicious as she appeared their first instances of interacting after that impactful Christmas. She is a balancing force Fred benefits from, and Fred affords her the very same with his whimsical nature. In regards to music, she is a fellow after Scrooge’s own heart. Fred shouts, ‘Conspiracy!’ in good-humored spirits when ‘Chet Baker Sings’ is broken out for the record player and at once both he and Clara mouth the words with exaggerated emotion: I get along without you very well… Of course, I do…

Scrooge spares his nephew and niece-in-law a visit at least once a week, and a call when he remembers the existence of his home phone. He visits the Cratchits often for dinner. The two worlds collide when time and work and plans allow. Fred and Clara can only pass through like ships in the night on this particular evening with the Cratchits but the time is spent gaily. Fred is great with the children, no surprise. He entertains the youngest ones and engages in a battle of wits with the cocksure adolescents. Everyone enjoy each other's company. All has been uphill.

The night’s remainder sees rounds of Yahtzee and Uno which, when threatens to turn hostile from the ‘Draw 4’s Emily receives from Bob, winds down.

“Okay, children,” Emily says to everyone, including Scrooge and her husband, “It’s time to start packing it up.”

“Aw, please, can we have one more game?” whines Tim.

“Yes, can we?” Scrooge echoes with an equal pout.

Emily shoos the older of the two onto his feet with a cluck of her tongue. The rest rise on their own with sighs of disappointment but exchange pleasant goodnights nonetheless. The last to rise is Tim. God bless him he can, his health greatly improved evidenced by the color on his face and greater sheen to his shaggy hair; he just doesn’t want to. This in itself, the influx of youthful bravado, is a gift in Emily and Bob’s eyes. However—they each pat Scrooge on the shoulders and tap him in to amend the child’s mood. Well. He was the enabler.

“Let us be big boys and listen to mum and dad,” Scrooge coaxes to a Tim with arms crossed. “Oh, come now. Stiff upper lip. There’s plenty more games for future days.”

“But I like having fun,” he laments in the saddest manner. Scrooge lowers to his knees to be more level and finds himself impressed rather than agitated at the amount of bones that crack from the one action. Perhaps he ought to be drinking more milk.

“Don’t we all,” Scrooge sympathizes. “But we need those times in between. Rest and school and chores. It makes the fun times all the more fun, doesn’t it?”

He nods reluctantly but argues one more point. “I get sad when you leave, Uncle Eb.”

Bob has the decency to help him out. He knows Scrooge well enough now to predict he will crack and stay for the sake of the boy’s feelings. “Aw, buddy. He’ll be coming back, you know that! He’s gotta go home and sleep.”

Tim, childness of his age ever at war with sage understanding, hangs his head low, muttering an assent and uncrossing his arms. “There’s my little lad,” Scrooge says warmly. He grabs for Tim’s hands outreached and pulls them both up. Emily hypothesizes aloud to Scrooge that he may possess bones not yet discovered for even more pop when standing. Scrooge says in his defense it’s been this way since his mid-twenties and complains to Bob that his wife is being very mean to him. Bob says he cannot hear.

“Tuck me in, please, Uncle Eb?” Tim requests and holds like velcro to his side.

“Of course, sweet boy.” Scrooge does so and Tim snuggles into the blankets with a last, fond smile to him before closing his eyes. It wells such emotion in Scrooge, and the vivid memories of a young Fred before what sadness struck that household, that he considers taking the boy on his shoulders and departing with a matter-of-fact, ‘This is my son now. Sorry, Bob. Sorry, Em. Farewell!’

He and the couple argue over sweeping. "Give me something to do, Emily, dear," Scrooge pesters. He reaches for the dish towel and Emily swats his hand away.

"Listen to this man, calling my house filthy," Emily accuses. Scrooge sputters in defense and there's a warm hand on his arm.

"She's teasing," Bob assures.

"I knew that," Scrooge lies. With Emily, he can never tell.

"You've done plenty, Ebenezer," Emily says. "And you realize we're not kicking you out, yes? You don't need to find chores to stay."

"Yeah," Bob agrees. "I'm sure you'd be more comfortable sleeping in your own bed than our rickety sofa, but this house is open to you. You know that, right?"

Scrooge lies again, promising he appreciates the offer but is fine to head back home, and when homeward bound he reflects. He does not regret not receiving a peak into family life until recently, much less parenthood. A child of his own any time beforehand would probably require a shrink. As would the wife— who, at this point, would no doubt be an ex-wife.

It's for the best that these musings stay relegated to the hypothetical. The past is as it is. It does not stop him from wondering if he should grieve the possibility that he has no window left open anymore. How grateful he feels to be a father figure to Tim, then, and trusted so deeply by Bob and Emily to fulfill that role. But for all of his internal jokes about battling for custody of the dear boy, he still must leave for his house. He will never replace Bob and Emily's foremost importance and he would not want to. Their configuration, the three of them, is one the husband and wife seem to have settled into; Scrooge is still figuring out how to navigate it.

That leads him to the real heart of the matter, which rests in a memory:

A foggy evening much like this punctured by love’s clarity within the cozy kitchen of Belle’s flat. How the woman he had just proposed to was ready as always to bang on her neighbor’s wall and end their midnight piano practice. How, instead of his usual suggestion of moving out early so she need not confer with inconsiderate neighbors, he ditched the plan to attempt sleep once more in the noise, and led her in a waltz on scratched linoleum. How they leaned into each other and slow-danced to well-performed renditions of their favorite records (she laughed heartily at Scrooge’s call through the wall of, ‘Great improvement of skill, my boy! Keep at it!’). And before earnest sleep once more, whispers of what the future would look like. Who their children would take after more and who would have whose eyes.

That was so long ago. But when he mutters the lyrics to himself he had muttered to her in soft tones, he swears he can hear the buzz of an overhead light; feel cool tile beneath him and a warm body beside him.

I get along without you very well, of course I do… Except when soft rains fall… and drip from leaves, then I recall the thrill of being sheltered in your arms…

The memory makes it is easy to identify a deterrent Scrooge feels as Tim does when he departs. It's his front door's echo upon every return. The wideness of the living area. Counter space still rarely used or even thought of. So much distance between every fixture, him included.

He leaves on the television at a low drone for some level of comfort.

"Greetings, Mr. Scrooge! We are calling to inform you that because of your generous donations this year, we have exceeded our goal by one-hundred and twenty-five percent. Those in need are now guaranteed hot meals, new clothes, and assistance in finding work. Our nonprofit is finally expanding and we cannot thank you enough for being a major donor. If you'd like to keep an open dialogue, you have our number— give us a call, and we can tell you all about the benefits you receive in return for your major gifts. Blessings! Blessings to you, Mr. Scrooge!"

STAVE III. Bow Out

"I do not welcome you here."

This moment was anticipated but it does not sting any less.

The night of the haunting, Marley told him he had always been there. Invisible, realms away, but there. Scrooge presumes this has not changed. How close he heels is unsure. It’s days like this he has to imagine dear, cursed Jacob hangs in the air close to Scrooge’s ear, the reason for the cold puff of air that hits it as he locks his house and leaves for a cool April stroll before a visit to Fred. Wonders if his pace, purposefully slower in accounting for the unseen Jacob’s chains, is an inane compulsion. A picture of paranoia stopping by shop windows convinced this time there will be another reflection.

The jeweler is his favorite in this regard. Many shining gems and sleek bands, glass display cases. Scrooge has limited his visits there on account of not having bought anything. Only scrutinized mirrored material for spectral evidence.

What Jacob Marley must think of his candle! Scrooge thinks. Perhaps he appreciates the consideration. Or he condemns it as a fool’s errand.

His imprisoned friend rides alongside him on the cab to Fred’s home, bound to the middle ground. This earthly plane, not inferno. In youthful hope bordering naivete, that means something to Scrooge, who in this new life is to see the best in everyone. That can extend to the dead. No rule about that, far as he ascertains.

In this moment he is forced to reckon with the living. Scrooge assists Fred with his and Clara’s debt. Likewise he offers advice pro bono to his nephew’s friends in similar situations. Trial runs, of a sort, before the firm is reopened, with the benefit of glowing testimonials. He can thank Bob for that; amending Scrooge & Marley's (they are going to change the name) reputation, and thus Scrooge's own, so he needn't completely erase his existence.

One unsatisfied young twentysomething is already acquainted with Scrooge’s prior services as he’s come to learn. Noticeably the most quiet when Scrooge has encountered his group in the past. He never speaks to nor looks at Scrooge—save for today. In an aside Fred’s friend makes clear that those were the services that caused his family struggle with a debt that now follows him.

"My friend, I apologize deeply,” Scrooge insists. “I understand your pain—”

"You do not,” is the terse reply. “You caused it."

"My work now provides counsel, good counsel. We've made it new to do something better."

"All well and good. But I won't be using them. I don't care for your apologies, or your change of heart. I simply care for you to leave."

Scrooge adheres to the request and is stopped from leaving by a Fred more riled than Scrooge himself.

“It’s of no matter,” Scrooge placates his nephew. “Not everyone likes my presence. I’d actually argue most! Your friend is just the first to work up the nerve to say it.”

Fred still apologizes profusely. Scrooge won’t budge; he refuses to cause a disturbance. It was bound to happen, he reminds Fred. It was bound to happen, he reminds himself.

That old building under renovation, on its way to a new name and good counsel, is a kindred spirit. Been made neat. Newly painted, foundational. Nothing more to tear down, only to build up. A strange want occurs to him on the walk back home to still have more walls to break and furniture to smash. He is otherwise unsure what help he could provide Lucie-Mae with, who’s in a rotten mood.

“My sparkly hat!” she seethes. “Stolen right out of my hand with all the money I had in it. It’s a city full of freaking creeps. And I’m the ‘good-for-nothing’?”

Scrooge clicks his tongue and assesses the bruise on her face she says she’d obtained falling down in her pursuit of the robbers. It’s quite a nasty one. Her knees aren’t scraped or bruised as one would imagine they’d be after such a fall. Priority for Scrooge lies in calming her ire long enough to sit her down at his usual booth at the pub and request something cold to reduce the swelling. “Such awful behavior,” Scrooge agrees, impassioned. “Thoughtless behavior. With nasty words to boot.”

“That was actually my—” she cuts herself off. “Nothing. Almost had enough to go home early. Stupid of me to try anyway... I need to be savvier.” The back had some frozen peas to spare and she holds it to her face, covers the bruise like Scrooge will forget it’s there. She jokes weakly, "Losing my touch."

“What you need is a way off these streets for good,” Scrooge counters. “Do you need me to talk to your—”

“No,” she replies quickly. Softer she says, “N-no, it will do no good. My father’s a stubborn man. He won’t soon change his habits.”

“Then…” Scrooge trails off. Then what, indeed. “… I’ll respect your wishes. But you cannot stop me from getting the two of us a late lunch.” She gives him a look of appreciation. The two eat and Lucie spends much of that time staring out the window in a very depressing manner. In a subdued tone Scrooge says after their meal, “Lucie, I wish I knew what could be done.” I wish you would tell me.

“Oh, it’s not all so bad,” she waves off. “Sort of miss the hat more than the earnings right now, but. It’s fine. How are you, Mr. Scrooge?”

“You know, I’m not actually sure,” he says with a half-hearted chuckle.

“Aimless,” she recalls.

“The kindest way to put it.” It’s his turn to stare out the window. He does his best to not appear downtrodden, but he must fail. She pushes her plate of chips closer to him and offers the rest.

Thanking her, he absentmindedly chews one and ponders aloud, “I wonder if it’s possible to know the way and still get utterly lost all the same.”

“That happened to me the other day,” Lucie says. “Took the route I always do but got distracted and hopped on the wrong bus. Was so lost I cried and the place I asked for directions from felt bad enough to give me fish and chips for free.”

His first real grin of the day creeps its way onto his face. He looks at her coyly from the corner of his eye. “That’s the ticket, then. If you are lost and lonely, people will give you chips.”

“So you’re lonely then?”

Scrooge sobers in realization of what he just said. He shakes his head and denies it with something temporary but true. “I am not right now.”

She shares his smile and the two tap together their chips in a toast.

They part ways outside the pub but not before Scrooge can slip a wad of notes into her tote without her notice. Lucie stops him from leaving and asks in a small voice, “Mr. Scrooge, there is one thing you could do for me right now.”

“Yes, anything,” Scrooge says immediately.

She hesitates for some time after this, appearing embarrassed for having said anything. Ultimately she commits with a request: “Could you wish me a happy birthday, please? I’d… I would like to hear it at least once today.”

Scrooge’s heart sinks. The girl in front of him fiddles with her hands, fidgeting in a way that suggests to Scrooge an acknowledgement of a birthday she refused to disclose until now was too much to ask for. She gave you chips on her own birthday. For all the unkindness the world showed her today, he says it as though the phrase holds all the world's meaning. “Happy birthday, Lucie-Mae.” 

With a wobbly smile she nods in thanks. Makes to step forward and opens her mouth to say something else, then shakes her head. Scrooge encourages her to speak.

"If it's not too much to ask, could I also p-please have a hug?" she asks in an even smaller voice. "Sorry. I used to always at least have my grandma for these things but ever since she—"

"Oh, my dear." He holds his arms open and she all but falls into them. Hugs him like it is the last time someone ever will. With equal force she pulls away, thanks him and wishes him a good evening, and runs off. Does not look back, and he is glad she doesn't. He wouldn't want her to see his broken expression.

And again en route back home he passes the jeweler’s. This time he enters and comes away with one he gravitated toward the strongest. A simple bracelet that costs more than it should and is perfectly understated. Woven sterling silver strands and a spring hook clasp with a loop. It goes on his wrist upon return to his house. He tugs it tighter so that he may feel it squeeze him.

“Hiya, Mr. Scrooge. Martha here! Just wanted to let you know it’s almost done. I went based off of Belinda’s head circumference since it sounds like she’s around the same age. Thanks again for the commission. It was a great opportunity to show my boss what I got, y’know? She told me to tell you ‘Hi from Della’, by the by. It’s a really sweet thing you’re doing, Mr. Scrooge. It should be done by the weekend. Cheers!”

STAVE IV. Above the Waterline

Four years ago, Scrooge did his occupation’s duty of informing a young man of the debt he and his new girlfriend had accrued. He had derived contemptible pleasure in this specifically for how foolish he found the two. Sinking so much money into the passion project of some woman he had met not even a year prior— a debt borne of such juvenile whims was deserved. And all the while out of a job, too!

“Find employment, find yourself on the streets, I don’t give a damn,” he had snarled. “If you’re stupid enough to get yourself in this situation, I’m sure it’ll be the latter, anyway. I’ll still collect.”

Stone-faced, the boy departed calmly and Scrooge thought that would be the end of it. The satisfaction did not last long. He came in the next day with a woefully short resume and a confident proposal. “If your clerk is willing to train me I would be willing to work here until my debt is repaid. I won’t ask for a penny until I’m trained. Except in the case that I can do any excess work for you of any sort in the meantime.”

Scrooge had laughed cruelly at this. “You’d degrade yourself to the point of being nothing more than an errand boy?”

“No,” the boy had said, “because taking responsibility for my debt is not degrading.”

It pained Scrooge at that time to find his tenacity admirable. Thus, he gave no indication he found it so. On the contrary Scrooge made it as difficult as possible for Jim to make any financial progress. Anytime the remainder of a conscience poked at him over it, it was quashed with tenfold aggression at the look Jim had on his face when Della came to greet him by his shift's end. A look like someone had finally turned on a bright light.

Scrooge did not live in light. He saw no conceivable reason why anyone else should think they are entitled to it, either. Made in the darkness of the womb, enveloped in the darkness of soil at soul’s departure. Do not live in light, the unconscious part of his mind manipulated. For when the light is gone, the darkness grows all the blacker. You can live in dark. Your eyes will adjust.

The day’s sunlight beams through the lobby’s newly cleaned window. Jim has been the most efficient of the three in the renovation’s grunt work and it shows in the shine of glass and smell of fresh carpet cleaner. Della, lovely curls now nearing her shoulders, stops by one day and pokes fun saying if only Jim could bring that vigor for cleaning back home.

In his own right, he has become a competent assistant to the clerk. He is also thinking about exit strategies.

It is not so urgent or hateful as the confession sounds, he had promised Bob and Scrooge both. They all long for the ship to steady, and Jim to plan for his next steps, and for Scrooge to find a decent replacement. But the bottom line Jim makes known: he does not plan on staying here permanently.

“This wasn’t the career track I thought I’d be on,” he says candidly. “Now without all of Della and I’s massive debt, and with the money I’ve been saving, I can think about my future farther than the next paycheck.”

Bob and Scrooge stay later that night at the office to determine course correction. This is their excuse to commiserate with a little brandy.

“We’re so far behind,” Bob frets. He traces his finger around the rim of his glass and every shift of his feet creates an echo in the office last left without carpeting. “Functioning building with heat and water, sure, but. So many particulars. And now with Jim… Ah, Mr. Scrooge. I feel like we’ve not met your expectations, hard as we’ve tried.”

“Says who?” Scrooge slurs, one glass ahead of Bob. “This is the way of business’s beginnings. On that topic, it’s officially after hours in three, two…” He waves his hand in a flourish at the exact moment the clock chimes. Bob grins, impressed (or feigning it). “I am no ‘Mr. Scrooge’ past eight o’ clock.” He downs the rest of what swills remain.

“On office grounds, you are my boss,” Bob counters. Scrooge looks at him skeptically and shows him the bottle of brandy for emphasis. “Heh. Sure, getting sloshed is not on-the-clock behavior. Still. When I’m in work mode, I can be of more use when discussing work, even when it’s to gripe.”

This creates a sense of unease in Scrooge. Bob Cratchit, when incentivized—and, well, treated like a human being—is a very motivated individual. Taken to covering for Scrooge on his sick days, shows initiative in getting their weekly laundry list of tasks underway or nearly entirely completed, all while completing night courses that could earn him a higher job title. Scrooge used to be motivated in such a way.

Scrooge is near relieved for Jim’s leaving after, in confidence, he told him the dedication he has put in personally has become a difficult thing between him and Della. Jim has no true passion for this business. The incentive is now the promise of a big paycheck. That obsession has left Jim somewhat absent at home and the realization spooked him so badly it made him immediately seek out other paths that held a passion, something with a joy that can be shared and not toiled over. "Della said a job you love should leave you thinking ‘I have’ and not ‘I want’," he had said.

“Okay.” Scrooge stashes their emergency liquor in his bottom desk drawer. He slaps his knees and stands up with a grunt. “We must be off. You are going back to where you are Bobby and I am Eb, meaning outside and on our way. No sour face now.”

He walks Bob to his usual station. “Aren’t you excited about all of this?” Bob asks.

“Of course,” Scrooge says. His tic of tucking his hands into his pockets has been usurped by encircling his wrist with the silver bracelet and twisting it like a pepper grinder. Upon notice of this he shoves them back into the pockets of his slacks. “I’m learning to be excited about other things, too. Fresh air. Books. Been very into books lately.”

“Fresh air and books,” Bob chuckles. “What sprawling hobbies, those both. And what have you been reading?”

“Where did I say I was reading them?” Scrooge banters. “I have a lovely new bookshelf to fill. Then I can sit down and read all those Austen novels your Martha has sworn by.”

“Ha! Sound logic. I’d first start with the cookbook Emily gave you. Any more close calls with a kitchen fire and you’ll be banned from the activity entirely.”

“God forbid it.” Scrooge clears his throat and holds a hand to it to assess the swelling. The shift of seasons is leaving him with a constant scratchiness and dull fatigue. With how poorly his immune system functions, it could become fever quickly. Of course Bob notices; Scrooge reassures him it’s mere allergies.

“There’s some vacancies in your rented rooms now, yes? If coming all the way here is too strenuous you could always have a home office.”

Scrooge immediately shoots it down. "'Strenuous', he says! I already have my nephew to make me feel elderly. You're not very far behind, Cratchit, remember that."

"Very well." Bob puts his hands up in defeat. "Figured I'd ask."

Before parting, he gets Bob to face him. The liquor far from done running its course causes him to swerve and Bob must steady him. “Promise me, Bobby. This will not be your life.”

“Of course not,” Bob says with ease. “I am just so passionate about—”

“Promise me.”

The care and fierceness of the tone’s request sober Bob enough to really look at Scrooge. “Yes, si—Eb. I promise.”

Scrooge attempts to send him off with a hug and a kiss on the cheek but he insists Scrooge come back with him in his inebriated state. He puts up little fight. On the commute they rest their heads against the other with drowsy lids. Emily cups both their faces in quiet greeting so as to not wake the littlest Cratchits (the eldest still mill about and one must wrangle Tiny Tim back to bed before he can accost his Uncle Eb) and Scrooge falls asleep on the couch where he wrestles with congestion and guilt, a prayer on his lips that he does not pass on his sickness.

"Eb, it's Clara. Oh Ebenezer, I'm so devastated. Did you hear the news about our Chet? My God! The stupid bugger. Scaling a balcony, really. They're throwing out all kinds of theories. The drugs (obviously); a suicide attempt; entirely on accident. No one can decide.

 

"Ugh, but does that matter? A man still fell and died scaling a balcony two stories up. Hardly sixty. I won't lie, I cried over it today. Things like this gets me existential. Makes me sit and invent imaginary people with bad opinions to get mad at. Because how does someone like that get remembered? As the stubborn bastard that relearned the trumpet from scratch after getting his teeth knocked out, or the 'druggie' who slipped off a building?

 

"... Fred was right. I need to stop drinking Chianti when I'm in these moods. Come to dinner this week so we can mourn together."

STAVE V. Port Wine

The children help spring's transition to summer feel less unbearable. The oldest Cratchit boy, Peter, comes to the offices and volunteers himself for the doing of little tasks under Bob’s supervision, who doles out workplace advice all the while. In a delightful coincidence, Martha drops by the pub every so often to visit Valentine, the establishment's youngest employee, who Scrooge now knows to be Martha's close schoolmate. With classes out of session she can more easily catch her friend during a shift. He and the eldest Cratchit child don’t often pop in at the same time so they’ve made a game of long-form tic tac toe courtesy of a piece of paper Valentine keeps safe behind the bar and passes between the two in their disparate visits. Scrooge has yet to win. He suspects foul play.

Tiny Tim knows of Scrooge’s struggle with the answering machine and sends him letters, no matter that he already sees his honorary uncle often. Emily points this out but must relent at Tim’s argument that ‘everyone gets to send Uncle Eb messages’ except for him. Scrooge planned on being a pen pal either way. It gets him out of admitting he learned how to use the answering machine weeks ago. And he gets to start a collection of keepsakes, filled with Tim’s shaky handwriting and Belinda’s own asides in the same letter, topped off with drawings in the blank spaces from the littlest Cratchits.

Business owners Scrooge was once chummy with found new rooms to rent from the year’s start—at least businesses Scrooge now finds too unsavory and at conflict with his life's outlook to sublet (which is a lot of them). One was never sublet at all, merely locked away and forgotten about by Scrooge, rediscovered by the explorative Cratchit children. It remained locked for months. Scrooge can remember a great many things, but in no surprise to himself, those memories of the grandest aggravation to Scrooge of Then become spotty until reconfronted. So it takes some time to relocate the key. With the fresh eyes of Bob and Emily, going through the room’s contents— the vintage, the sentimental, the supremely dusty—becomes a more enlivening task.

All are thrilled at the excavation of a Magnavox end table and enlist the children to hunt down the 33s and 45s. When these vinyls are found and piled Bob gawps at the impressive condition; Emily is more focused on most all of them still being in their plastic casing, unopened. Scrooge sets aside one for Clara’s next birthday and rifles through them for one he knows is also still tragically encased.

The one venture beyond London, featuring a young boy with his first big paycheck, an indulgence in recreational spending egged on by Fan, and the company of the love of his life, saw him off to frolic across Italy for a spell. They came back with a deck of 45s that wouldn’t soon see distribution beyond those Italian record shops and the one Scrooge holds in his hand, a twenty-six year old treasure, gives him a headrush.

The young couple listened deeply to the two singles, first heard at dinner and then sought out at the stores. ‘Chetty’s Lullaby’—A side. ‘So che ti perderò’—B side.

He and Belle never opened any of these copies. The initial reason was ruminating on how romantic it would be to have a brand new record to open and listen to for the first time in their inevitable new home come married life. It then became about how much more valuable they would become over time if left unopened.

Later alone that evening Scrooge brings into that cobwebbed room a cushioned footstool, a notebook and pen, and a bottle of port wine. Blessed be, the record player in that console still works! Without a second thought the single is unwrapped, the vinyl placed.

“I wonder what he’s saying,” Belle had asked more than two decades prior, eyes closed, head on her hand in a dreamy state.

Pen in hand, Scrooge lets the A side play out until only the sound of static lingers. The needle is set back. A side plays out. Needle set back. Scratch of record, scratch of pen on paper. Over and over until the port's half gone and so is he. The next night he does the very same with the B side until the bottle is empty.

He cannot imagine how laughably bad his phonetic spelling must be. On Sunday he goes to the cathedral, lights his candle, says his prayers for those gone. On his way home purchases a translation book, breaks out the shoddy transcriptions, and practices another religious ceremony of a totally different kind.

With all of life’s distractions and his poor ears and rotten translation skills, what he thought would take days takes weeks. At his bedside table he keeps the fruits of his labor, a meager handful of translated lines of a B side. He wonders if Belle heard about Chet Baker's death. He wonders if she cares.

Night, I'm so alone

I live in your fog

Sad, I search for what was once so mine

That I will never find again

Summer is in full swing and he does not wish it upon anyone. The humidity, moistly unbearable, crawls under his skin. When Della drops by to see Jim she is in a new hat each time but wears the same miserable look. Jim asks her how she's doing and she mutters some variation of, 'I need to kill this weather', and Jim hugs her with a fond smile and a supportive, 'I'll help you, my darling,' providing suggestions of what weapons to kill the concept of precipitation with.

He thinks, somehow, the young couple may have succeeded, because on this day he is prepared with a cold bottle of water to hand to Lucie who has repurposed her gifted umbrella as portable shade. His belated gift- a bedazzled cadet cap- remains with him still. He fears her losing it again or her father selling it. It is not a one-to-one of her previous cap, so underlying the other fears is the thought she may just not like it.

Lucie-Mae has expressed guilt on enough occasions to deter Scrooge from handing her a daily quota. But Scrooge indulges in loopholes—there are many old things in that unlocked room, more than he had even realized, of no value to him but great value elsewhere. Save for the Magnavox and the 45s, he has wiped down and handed off a healthy dozen. He has also gone through his drawers and set aside accessories he has not used nor thought about in a decade at minimum. Watches, cufflinks, hand mirrors and gloves and hats that will find better use in another owner. Twice he had to stop short in the frenzy to not throw out those valuables which did hold value. At the very bottom of the drawer of forgotten accessories, a once-golden band with a modest diamond; with the cufflinks, one pair gifted to him by Fan. Those were kept. The rest could go.

They are sold off at good prices. At Scrooge’s behest just enough will go to the household. She sets aside the rest as her own personal profit, and at a shared meal, something that's become a regular occurrence, is advised on how to manage her money. She is his best client of this firm’s new life. Scrooge tells her to store her portion in safe places she knows won’t be checked, kept in case of emergency. 

She'd asked what kind of emergencies. Scrooge was vague with an answer of 'anything'. The topic of home, with all Lucie's lets slip on accident, has painted a picture Scrooge does not like. 

“Come now, Lucie,” Scrooge coaxes. She gulps down half of her water in one go. “You exceeded today’s profit, head back to where it’s cool.”

“It’s hardly past noon,” she argues. “I should leave when the sun leaves.”

“Hardly likely!” he objects and holds a hand out for the remaining watch held on display. “I shall take it back for now.”

She holds the watch to her chest, looking extremely reluctant. In a small voice she asks, “You would like me to leave?”

 “O-of course not,” he sputters. “I just don’t want you to be hostage to the sidewalk.”

“This is not where I feel hostage.” Defeated anyway she hands him the watch with an ironic smile. Scrooge expected this; with no more reasons to stall her journey home, he resolves to stall it for her.

“We are but a five minute walk to my street,” he says. “I’m always complaining about the temperature drop from my second floor to the living quarters, but at this time of year, it’s an excellent place to lounge and curse the sun.”

Her face brightens. The sun is dim in comparison.

They drink lemonade and relish doing absolutely nothing. She naps well into the evening—Scrooge is thankful for this, she always looks so tired—and they order takeaway and make use of the CRT in the living room Scrooge never uses. Lucie shows him what MTV is and it makes his head hurt.

“How many rooms do you have in here?” she asks at some point.

“I don’t recall,” Scrooge says. “Probably too many.”

She holds onto the railing at the base of his wide staircase. In a leisurely manner she oscillates back and forth in a half circle, gaze travelling every which way. “No roommates, right?”

“No, just me,” Scrooge says quietly.

Lucie purses her lips in thought. Plopping back down on the sofa beside him she asks, “You know what I think you should do?”

His returning question is laced with anticipatory amusement. “No, what do you think I should do?”

“There’s lots of stray kittens around. Get as many for as many spare rooms. It’ll be like each cat has their own personal residency.”

“That’s certainly an idea,” he chuckles. “Redecorate to their personal tastes. Ask them for rent they won’t pay and argue whose turn it is to do the dishes.”

“Exactly!”

“Kittens with their own little houses. Is this an idea you can patent? Tell me its name.”

Lucie taps a finger to her chin and contemplates. He sees the lightbulb go off in real time and watches her eyes glint. She spreads her palms and sweeps them horizontal in the air to accentuate the pitch’s name. “’Cat in a Flat’. By Dr. Luce!”

Scrooge laughs how it feels—as if it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in years.

When the time comes to call a cab he first asks her a question he has asked in hundreds of other little ways. Those ones were dressed up so as to not inspire a total retreat. He cannot afford to do that anymore.

"Lucie," Scrooge starts. "Are you safe at home?" Immediately her hands go to rub at her wrists, never not concealed by fingerless gloves. Mouth a thin line, she hums an affirmative. He tries his luck. "My dear, I'm... I'm not very convinced."

"You don't believe me?" She crosses her arms defensively. Scrooge isn't sure what to say to that. He chokes on any justification, already assured he is not going to win this. "Mr. Scrooge, you're the only grown-up I've met who hasn't called me a liar yet," she says curtly. "Please don't start now. And don't ask me again."

"... Very well. Just, please- take care of yourself."

Lucie flashes a brief and artificial smile. She says her goodbye and does not look back. Scrooge lingers at the doorway for some time after. No closer to figuring out how to fix this situation.

He wonders how Fan would handle it all. He has to imagine better than him.

Conversations with her through prayer are one-sided. Still, swallowed on both sides by the cathedral's wide pews, it invokes a lightness, a security, that feels like her doing. It is her way of response. He tugs at his bracelet in chastisement when a smarmy dig towards Marley floats by in his thoughts. See, Jacob? Maybe you could learn a thing or two. 

He never noticed how much he relied on her counsel until it was gone. Even providing a listening ear made whatever dilemma at the time seem clearer. Losing that one person- if you have never lost such a thing, it is hard to fathom the feeling of looking beside yourself for a face and a voice that was always there, and now having nothing in its place. For Scrooge he has plenty more to count on again. Bobby, Emily, Fred. That does not change the fact none can fill the vacancy in the specific shape of a person that provided such unique understanding.

After the death of his younger sister he sought no advice for a very long time. She was the one he ached to talk about it with.

He tries his best now. His weekly prayer to her has become a time to update her on life. She knows everything about Lucie-Mae already, and the firm's progress. Provide me strength to handle both, Fan, he thinks. Provide me wisdom.

Those pleas are his own mind's A-side and B-side. Flipped back to one then the other. More insistent every day that passes with no Lucie out and about. He hears nothing from her or of her. You frightened her, he thinks.

Marley circles him in his dreams. He's been getting closer, closer. And Scrooge wakes in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, pulls his silver bracelet tighter around his wrist. Turns it clockwise, counterclockwise, back again. However long until the sensitive skin below his palm feels red and raw. When that is not enough to fall back asleep he heads for the Magnavox and listens to an A-side over and over, summoning strength and wisdom, until his translations reveal the musings of a lullaby.

Without you

I feel cold in my heart

I only seek

The illusion

Of having you here with me...

“Ebenezer. It’s Emily Cratchit. I’ve thought more about your little match girl. I don’t know if you’re expecting me to have motherly wisdom or some magic answer at the ready—which I wish I did—but, this is difficult. Tch. Those damn ‘protective services’ and the damn ‘law enforcers’. Never do I see the law enforced in the parts of the city they deem seedy. They’re too busy doing nothing, I’ll tell you that.

 

“I can feel myself getting worked up to a tirade. Never mind it. A child like that knows what does or doesn’t ensure their safety at home. Listen to that until we find a better solution. Give her time to poke back out of her shell. And, er... feel better, dear. Tim wishes you well too.”

STAVE VI. Keelhaul

Eb&Co. Finance Solutions plans on taking clients very soon.

The space is not yet lived in. That on its own will make it feel like theirs, but they revel in the newness of each corner with every painted wall, the breaths of life in tastefully placed potted plants. Four offices in total, all of which he hopes are filled by next year. Bob has made great headway in his night courses; he is a ways from a Master’s but Scrooge couldn’t care less. He will continue to train on the job, gather hands-on experience. Even Jim is wrapped up in the giddiness.

Scrooge wishes to admit to Bob a strange nervousness preceding this new beginning. It could be perceived as reluctance. Reversion. Scrooge will not risk a domino effect projecting outward a negative state of mind, so he admits nothing. 

They receive clientele earlier than expected, and it is the reason for Scrooge’s leave of absence for the next Tuesday through Friday.

From his desk he hears the beginnings of a fuss. Voices of his clerks politely informing the fusser they are not yet open. Scrooge investigates upon the mention of his own name and greets a man with a hardened face. “Mr. Scrooge.”

Scrooge stops midway in his request for what the matter is when he identifies the face he has only seen once before, some time ago. He holds in his hand a tote bag not seen in some time either.

“Ah,” Scrooge says in a short tone. He had planned on extending his hand in greeting and abandons the idea with this new recognition, instead clasping it tightly in his other. “Mr. Barrett. It has been some time." 

They convene in his office; Mr. Barrett sits down as does Scrooge in his own desk chair. "What brings you here today?” he asks.

Wordlessly, Mr. Barrett rifles through the tote bag and unloads handfuls of notes. With a set jaw he says, “My child is starting to take after you. She’s been hoarding money and stowing it in hidden places where she thinks I wouldn’t find it. Oh, pardon. Her ‘earnings’.” Scrooge says nothing; only waits for the man to air all his grievances. “Is that how you spend your free time? Making children spite their parents and deprive them of what they’ve earned?”

“The parents or the children?”

“’Scuse me?”

With a pointed 'ahem', Scrooge restates: “Are ‘they’ who have earned, in this hypothetical, the parents or the child laborers?”

“He’s smart,” Mr. Barrett sneers. He gathers the notes into semi-neat piles and slides them closer to Scrooge. “This was a fraction of what I found. Consider this a loan repayment and incentive to never come close enough to poison her again.”

Scrooge bites his tongue’s first instinctual comebacks with great effort. He pushes his glasses back up and the sound of sudden start and stop of footsteps beyond the slightly ajar office door do not escape him. The last thing he needs is Jim or Bob to be privy to this. Ultimately, for the sake of Scrooge’s improved name and the bodily safety of Mr. Barrett, he remains behind the desk. “Mr. Barrett, sir. I can, in some ways, understand your frustrations. But I must reassure you: this is not some hidden plot—”

“What is it, then? If it isn’t that, I don’t see any reason this would be your business. Or is your business stirring trouble?”

“Decency is my business,” Scrooge asserts. “The welfare of common man is my business. That includes, but is not limited to, concern over a child—a child’s—perennial struggles being assigned breadwinner, with no discrimination toward snow or rain or heat. If this child comes in harm’s way while I walk by doing nothing, it’s going to bother me. And I do walk by. She is on my route to work.”

“Not anymore, as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Mr. Barrett bites.

Indeed he has. In the past this was a comfort. A hope that meant their situation no longer necessitated this work. All it does now, with this new knowledge that her retreat has not been to avoid him, is make his mind reel with frightening scenarios. And he tenses.

"Is she well?" he mutters. He receives a scowl in return and so reiterates in a stronger voice, "Is she well?"

"Yes! Christ. What do you think of me?"

Scrooge cannot help it. With a slight smile he gives a facetious remark. "Mr. Barrett, you would not like to know what I think of you."

“Tch! Well, here's what I think of you- you are harm’s way. Were it not for your approximation of charity that stupid girl of mine wouldn’t have all these insane ideas in her head about how to screw me over. Suggestions of 'personal profit'. She earns nothing. She owns nothing."

"That I do know." He tucks his hands in his lap and out of sight so he may fiddle with his cuffs, undoing and redoing the buttons. The small distraction keeps his vision from going red. "You made sure of that when money got tight again. For what reason that happened so fast, I can only conjecture, but it seems the person to suffer the consequences of those actions is decidedly not you."

"Oh, you are damn lucky those two pillocks are out there to keep me from-"

"Hm? From what? Go on."

Mr. Barrett redoes the tote's clasp and shakes his head, half-ranting to himself. "Knew it from the first time I met you, you were a prick getting off on a charity kick. I'm always right about these things. That's right. I've got an instinct. My money, my house. I should not have to, in my own house, be burdened to rear this selfish brat who's so willful that the truths of your little ruse need to be smacked out of her.”

The newly installed rug absorbs any echo of the strong slap of Scrooge’s hands to his desk. It does nothing to minimize the animal intent that wrought the action. His chair scrapes back and he stands up for the rush of getting to tower over this man, who is now looking satisfied with the rise he’s getting out of Scrooge. “You are no family man,” he says, somehow still able to manage a low but icy tone. “And Lucie is no burden. Not ‘that stupid girl', not ‘that selfish brat'. Lucie. Lucie-Mae. Who celebrated her eleventh birthday selling matches on the sidewalk. What ‘man of the house’ does that? And then has the gall to lay his hands on her after the fact! Shame on you, Mr. Barrett.” He opens the door and gestures outward, where Bob and Jim very unsubtly speed walk back down the hall. “I would like for you to leave my office, please.”

“I’ve made my point anyway,” Mr. Barrett scoffs. He throws the tote over his shoulder and stands up. They are nearly home free of a worse explosion when he says on his way out, “I hope you sleep well at night, Mr. Scrooge. Knowing one day I will have to put that child out on the streetcorner to be selling something much more than matches— and she'll have the man who wanted to play Daddy Warbucks to thank.”

His employees who flank either side of the lobby are caught in the precarious dilemma of, from what Scrooge can discern in his periphery, looking eager to tear after this man himself, and having to hold Scrooge back from making regrettable decisions. Just the luck for Scrooge of Then, for both take too long dwelling on the former, and Scrooge storms down the short hallway in time to clutch the back of Mr. Barrett’s shirt in a furious claw and pull him back. He blocks him from the door, stands to his fullest height in spite of his shoulders’ protestations. “No harm will come to her!” His voice booms. “Should it come to her, it will then come to you tenfold, and I pray at that instance God turns a blind eye—”

“Eb!”

Two firm hands peel him away from Mr. Barrett, who stands wide-eyed but nigh frightened. Merely vindicated and a touch inconvenienced. Scrooge is held back long enough for the man to duck out and away with a curse over his shoulder. Jim curses him in turn and shoos him out the door.

With a one-track mind Scrooge only first registers that he has been pulled away from tearing apart an awful man, and indulging that misdirected rage, whacks the hands away unthinkingly. Both having backed away from the other, Scrooge now understands it was Bob Cratchit doing his job both as friend and employee in not letting Scrooge lose himself. He has done so too late. "Mind your own, the both of you!" Scrooge snaps.

Bob, though unafraid, wears a look of extreme caution. Jim holds up placating hands and backs away despite being farther back. Scrooge takes in this scene and stands horrified with himself. He hardly croaks out an apology, instead returning to his office, locking it, and crumpling the notes into a wad and throwing them wildly. They fly free anyway and flutter across the new carpet floor.

In the time off he sits in the dusty room of memories. His back screeches in pain from his hunched position over his notebook and nearby translator. The 45 B-side is played well into the night. Less time to confront a source of judgment in the place where Marley’s eyes should be.

Night, what are you hiding from me?

I don't want dawn, give me oblivion

I want to forget her,

But I won't succeed, no…

-

Emily Cratchit is brought along as insurance because Scrooge still feels unpredictable days later, and his fear of her reprimands outweighs his temporary rage at Mr. Barrett. But there is no Mr. Barrett to be found. By extension, no Lucie.

“Just up and left?” Scrooge asks incredulously.

“Not all at once,” the landlord explains in a tone that tells Scrooge just how disruptive their absences were to his rent collection.

“Now what does that mean?” Emily asks, and upon his explanation, Scrooge loiters helplessly nearby to assess a room full of mess yet devoid of anything at all. The girl had run first, the landlord divulged. And he knows this because of the great commotion that preceded it, and knows of this commotion because of irritated tenants’ noise complaints. Mr. Barrett was not far behind; he couldn’t pay the rent so out he went. Neither have been seen in that time.

Emily and Scrooge take a walk. They stop for a bench and rest there a moment, saying nothing.

'You did all you could'; 'She's safe somewhere'; 'She'll come back'. All the go-to sentiments are inapplicable. That is the trait in Emily he appreciates the most: her honesty. It is not blunt for the sake of being blunt, or offered when unasked. Same as her husband she has come to learn Scrooge well enough that she does not cover up the situation's gravity with platitudes, and this silence is as loud an example of that honesty as any. He slumps his upper half, head in his hands, and she places a calming hand between his shoulder blades.

Emily invites him to come have supper with the family. He declines.

Scrooge stays there at that bench long after she leaves. Darkness eventually threatens to fall and so he returns home to escape sleep with a pen and notebook, and a song he now knows so well he could sing it backwards.

I've fled away

Dear, far from you.

I can't love you without suffering

Believe me

I know that I will lose you.

“Uncle. I’ve been trying to reach you. I heard you stopped going to your appointments. And you’ve stalled the firm’s opening. Why is that? What’s troubling you?

 

…

 

Uncle, I know you’re there.

 

…

 

Please don’t do this again.”

STAVE VII. Stern Love

Things, presently, need doing. Life goes on. He adjust their timeline and leans into the pushback, spins it into a positive; Jim and Bob are still paid all the while. It gives Bob time to prioritize his night classes and Jim some much needed time with his wife.

Bob treats Scrooge the same as he did before the disturbance of Mr. Barrett. As a friend, as someone to look out for and to feed and to joke with. That hurts more for some reason.

He can't not attend at least one evening a week with the Cratchits. With their own voluntary efforts in keeping an eye and an ear out for the girl, he is indebted at this point. Were none of that the case he would still make the trek—his Tiny Tim misses him.

"Did you get my last letter?" Tim yawns. At his bedside Scrooge nods with a warm smile.

"You bet I did," he says, "and your Uncle Eb's making sure his next letter to you is as good as yours was to him."

"Doesn't have t'be perfect," he mumbles, already drifting off. "I'm just happy t'hear from you."

"What a sweet boy," Scrooge whispers. In a paternal manner he smooths back the overgrown, wispy bangs from his forehead. "What a darling boy."

"Mm-hm," Tim agrees before falling asleep completely and Scrooge must bite back a laugh, and then a cry. How wonderful a thing, he thinks. To know so confidently you are loved. 

He eyes his wrist. The skin beneath the silver band is ugly. Calloused. Fingerless gloves come to mind and he feels a bit ill.

You have a sickness.

A hand on his shoulder startles him. Scrooge and Bob wince and check on Tim, who remains asleep. Bob mouths a sorry to him and points downward in reference to the general space, eyebrows raised in silent question. You staying?

With an apologetic smile he shakes his head, waves a hand in negation. I ought not to. I am harm’s way.

Were this conversation verbal, he wonders if that impulsive thought would have found its way out of his mouth. He is glad it is not verbal so Bob may only interpret the first half. Bob has a look about him anyway. He, like Scrooge, reveals nothing, and cups the side of his face as a way of silent sendoff, then returns to the main room. Scrooge puts his own hand where Bob’s just was, scratches it a little too hard.

He tucks in Tim with a kiss to his forehead and prays that it’s not true, that Ebenezer Scrooge is not harm’s way, and Tim will always avoid such tragedy and danger all his life.

That night he sleeps late and wakes late and looks for answers in the cathedral, whispers prayers of names over and over until it feels as though the squeezing strength of his interlocked fingers is enough to bruise his hands. He prays to three candles now.

Lucie-Mae Barrett has been gone thirty-six days.

Scrooge has asked around, too, how many he’s asked! He’s sought out familiar faces on what is her typical route and all have had the same to say: none have seen her—save for a guilt-wracked Valentine.

“When she saw me she ran,”  she says. “If I knew what was going on, if I could have even stopped her—”

Scrooge calms her and tells her it is not her fault. She unfolds worn paper from her apron pocket and puts it on the table. “Kid’s got a good eye. She remembered where we keep yours and Martha’s game.”

He reads the newest addition, below the tic-tac-toe grid. It is short, smudged, and at first difficult to parse from the spelling mistakes and poor penmanship.

‘IM OꓘEY ,  going sumwhre sayʇ .’

“Somewhere safe,” Scrooge mutters. He longs for a sigh of relief. Though he waits, it does not come to him. He thanks Valentine anyway and orders cocoa on a day not meant for cocoa. Swirls chips in the hot beverage. You cannot find her, he thinks. Harm’s way. She is safe from harm’s way.

He dreams of Jacob Marley.

"A joke," Scrooge grumbles to himself after every sudden wake from these dreams. "A tired rerun."

Marley had so much to say the night of Christmas's haunting, and more he still wished to say. Then he had to return to the spiraling cesspool of regret and misery. Perhaps that is another punishment of Marley's, and not Scrooge's selfish assumption of it being his own: the chance to see the other once again, with all the time but no voice. Stitched up from corner to corner on that frowning face. So much to still warn Scrooge of— the privilege to help forever snatched away.

With this recent theorizing, finishing his prayers at home has become necessary. The coughing is constant, a steady wave of nausea and intense congestion creating a very unpretty combination. The hope was for a steaming bath to soothe that and the rest of his aches. He ends up Nowhere. He calls to Marley, wanting to chew him out for graduating from sleep disturbance to bath interruptions. But he does not take his anger out on his late friend.

In place of a rant, Scrooge asks if he is a bad person. Marley will not answer.

Scrooge asks him if he is disease. Marley will not answer.

Frustration mounting, Scrooge asks who, then, is saying these things. What, then, is supplanting these accusations within. Why, then, the voice tells him disease must be stopped, and why it tells him in his own voice.

Marley screeches. The clamor of that screech and his rattling chains quake the ground beneath them. The sonic blast unsteadies Scrooge and he loses balance. Another screech, closer, inside his own ears, at the same time as his fall. These two things are what pull him out of the Nowhere; the ground now is steady but cool against his face, the screech ripped from his own throat at the impact of his entire weight collapsing to the floor.

It’s a single moment of blackened vision, brought on by him doubled over expelling his lung’s obstructions. Or it was longer—he has no idea how long he was actually out. There was no one there to tell him.

He hobbles his way into clothes, down the stairs, and to a cab. This process takes an hour, accounting for when he must catch his breath or work up the strength to move in a way he knows will induce pains that feel like nothing short of his body coming apart. The whole time peppering in obscenities because of the agony and getting very creative with it.

Scrooge comes away from it with two bruised ribs, a sprained wrist, and antibiotics the doctor all but threatened him to take for the whole course after a thorough lecture on untreated bronchitis. He plans to tell no one of this mishap. Least of all Fred.

If anyone was to sus him out quick, it would be his niece or Emily, and the former comes around first, three days into radio silence. She is exceptionally patient with Scrooge’s slow pace at coming to the door, and inviting her in, and sitting down on the couch.

“Cheers, Uncle Scrooge. I think you are about to be the first person in recorded history to be grounded by their nephew.”

He holds a hand to his ribcage, hidden beneath his beloved robe and the same pajamas he has been wearing for three days, and curbs his wheezing. “Being funny around a person in chest pain is not allowed,” he chokes out. Clara takes it upon herself to raid his freezer and retrieves an ice pack. He thanks her.

“I love my husband very much,” Clara prefaces, “but I know he loves to give himself gray hairs over you. He gets concerned with you alone here so I was going to beat him to the chase and check on you to prove he was being paranoid. Now…”

“It was no more than a simple trip, my dear, honest.”

“So they’re giving out amoxicillin for harmless falls these days,” she says and nods in the direction of the kitchen. “Saw the antibiotics on your counter.”

“Alright, yes, a small cold, too.” His body decides at that moment to induce a coughing spell. The pain is so blinding he fears he will pass out again. He fights the urge to wail and instead lets out a low groan. Clara says nothing through all of this, sits tall with her hands folded on her lap. When Scrooge can speak again he says, “I’m fine.”

“Uncle, if languishing here is preferable to staying with us while you heal, you can say so and I will leave. I would just hate to not make it clear that our home is your home, too.”

“I know that,” he says unconvincingly. He attempts to shift and winces. “I do. But—Clara, love, I also know young people, and that they like their space.”

“Yes. Our space. Fred and I’s. Meaning we decide what we’d like to do with it. Right now it’s to offer it.”

 “You deserve to have that for yourselves,” Scrooge insists. “You don’t need the weight of burden ‘round your necks.”

“Is that how you see it?” Clara asks softly, to which he has no answer. They stare at one another, Clara’s eyes hardening, her mouth a thin line. She grabs her clutch from the table and stands up. “I can’t make you believe us. Or ask you to stop screening Fred’s calls. Just know you are welcome. Alright?” She blows him a kiss instead of giving him a hug goodbye.

His niece-in-law is kind enough to spare Fred’s blood pressure for another day, and to convince him not to hogtie Scrooge and drag him to their home. He requests nothing more than for Scrooge to call him once a day to know he’s still alive, and that he may stop by a couple times a week to make sure he doesn’t go stir crazy. Fred does a favor and brings him his and Martha’s pub game. He doesn’t comment on when Scrooge pores over the messy handwriting for too long. Scrooge doesn’t comment on how Fred lingers late on his visits the closer they come to mid-August.

By then the congestion is cleared and his chest still aches but he can now laugh without the stabbing pain of a thousand knives. It is obnoxiously beautiful that day—far more than the day of Fan’s actual funeral. Uncle and nephew bow their heads in reverence at the gravestone and let the other have their own one-on-one with her. Scrooge has little to say. He feels farther from her here than he does with her candle.

Fan died of illness. Poverty killed her. And so Scrooge of Then—not taking the time to think about it, because who wants to think about it—evaded the killer. He evaded with such dexterity he became the killer of all things Good in his life. On the topic of it he admits to Fred on their stroll outside the graveyard on this mild and green day, “I think you are too good to me, dear nephew.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Fred scolds. “Mom spoke so kindly about you. You know? We’re family. I don’t hold grudge or bitterness, none.”

“Because you have her heart,” Scrooge says softly. He briefly wraps an arm around Fred’s shoulder as they walk in a show of affection. “And so I know she’d hold no grudge either. Even though I’d deserve it.”

“All this talking about ‘deserving’,” Fred says. “Who gets to decide that? Me? You? Mom would be chiding you for all this talk right now. And for disregarding your health.”

“With this again.” Scrooge sighs wearily. They stop in place and Scrooge looks elsewhere than Fred’s distressed expression as he says, “You worry too much. This is what happens when you age. Things ache, you take to sickness quicker and take to healing longer. If there were a real problem—”

“There is, and it’s you worrying too little!” Fred exclaims with an anxious quirk of his eyebrows. “So much time we spent apart… it makes the present all the more precious to me. You never realize how many things pass you by. The older I get the faster it passes, too! And it takes with it things I never consented to part with. Like the smell of the dish detergent in my old place. Or, or the sound of Mom’s voice. Sometimes, I…” He gets lost in his own musings. Refocusing his lens away from Scrooge and to a problem evidently bothering him on an independent level. With eyes shining he confesses in a troubled whisper, “I’m starting to forget what it sounded like. I can’t recall her laughter. Was it a twitter, o-or bells?”

“Please, Freddie.” Scrooge holds out a calming hand and Fred grips it.

“Having you around again has been such a blessing and you don’t see it that way. I know you can! You have before, but you must hold on to it! Please, just… don’t leave me alone so soon, Uncle Scrooge. I lie awake with worry and a churning stomach, I—”

“Alright. Alright.” He holds Fred close and lets him cry. Fred wraps his arms around him, leans into the embrace like a small, frightened child.

How Scrooge forgets his grief is both singular and shared. The pain of Fan’s death, of equal measure to Fred’s, presents itself in a different form. To Scrooge it is one loss. Fred’s extends anticipatorily. He’s lost in what’s yet to come. Scrooge grounds him in the present. “Dear boy. I’m so sorry. All will be well. I swear it.” I can make it right, Scrooge thinks. I can make it right.

He doesn’t know how yet.

But Scrooge is not ungrateful. He will not be ungrateful.

He sends Tim letters until the postal workers walk out late that August. They celebrate Clara's birthday in high spirits and she loves her new record. His nephew is not as anxious now that he recommits to physical therapy. The rib pain is no longer a visceral, sharp pain, demoted to a dull ache with too much exertion, and his wrist on its way to recovery at a slower pace, the one he keeps his band on. The doctor said it exacerbated the sprain.

And he keeps to Eb & Co.’s new timeline, as promised. No one outright says there ought to be a re-opening party, so all assume it is underway regardless. The ideal place for celebrating this career's rebirth is with him. Spacious, sprawling. All friends and family have already been there. Casual visits; never a holiday or big event. He cannot fashion it into a place of revelry the way Fred can with his own home. It confounds Scrooge—so much so that he ends up admitting this to Bob after a few post-dinner glasses of brandy.

"There are new things. There is warm lighting and open curtains, and... er..."

"A bookshelf?" Bob provides.

"And a bookshelf," Scrooge says. "A half-full, unread bookshelf. I suppose it is a place of potential." He leans back on the Cratchit's worn, well-loved sofa. A meditative air drawn from tipsiness has him mumble aloud, "The dead roots are gone. Aren't they? They should be. All seed and fresh soil. Why is it so shy to fully bloom?"

Bob does not reply. If he did, Scrooge did not hear it on account of immediately dozing off. However— he is there at his front doorstep the next day unannounced. So are Emily and the two oldest Cratchit children who bicker in the background. All carry with them some box or bag of miscellaneous items. Scrooge does not get a word in edgewise to ask why. Bob asserts, "We are coming in and fixing your house. This kind of thing calls for several sets of eyes. 'Scuse us, if you would."

Scrooge is too baffled to do anything but let them in, sans follow-up questions or any sort of clarification. He gives them the go-ahead to do what they like as long as he gets to rest a bit longer. With bed curtains drawn he lays in a cool and calm darkness with the added benefit of distant footsteps and chatter and laughter.

Sleep need not return. It’s too cruel to him now. Marley stands close enough that, were it reality, he would be able to feel the warmth of his breath, peer into the sunken caverns where eyes should be, an emptiness there shining with a blinding blue glow. But Scrooge can see past the glow. He sees how Marley weeps.

The creak of his bedroom's door follows a polite knock and call of, "Eb? It's Bob. I'm coming in." Like before, he hears nothing about it; only clicks Scrooge's door shut and moves toward the bed. He does not shuck open the curtains but Scrooge does feel them swish toward him. "I've gotta admit, I'm a little envious of this. Sort of the sophisticated adult version of a blanket fort. Perhaps I'll take them for myself before the end of today."

At the pointed cheekiness, Scrooge does pop his head out in a way that must look very comical. His friend hisses out a laugh. "You have become a very bold man this year," Scrooge observes. In emphasis of this point Bob does part the curtains this time, wide enough to let himself sit bedside.

"That I have," Bob agrees affably. "I have my friend to thank for that."

The corners of Scrooge's mouth turn upwards. He attempts to bundle himself up in his blankets once more and with a tut Bob helps him sit up. His glasses are on the bedside table so even in their close positions Scrooge must squint to see his friend more clearly. His friend who tenderly rakes his fingers through Scrooge's mussed up hair and asks, "How’s the broken everything?”

“Getting unbroken,” Scrooge replies with half-lidded eyes, leaning into the touch. Belle used to tease him and call him a cat for how zen he would become having his hair played with.

“You still look like Death warmed over.” Bob stops his soothing motions and puts the back of that hand against his forehead. “Are you sleeping well?"

"Ha!" Scrooge's snort of laughter is the most apt response. Bob hums in understanding.

"Were I you I'd be the same," he says. "There's been a lot on your plate."

"Why are you here, Bobby?" Scrooge asks abruptly. "You have plenty on your own plate. You don't have to worry about mine."

"Of course I don't have to. I would quite like to if that's alright."

"But... why?"

Even blurry, Scrooge can make out Bob's puzzled expression. "Because it's what you've been doing for everyone, all year. I'm responding in kind. Not out of obligation either. I genuinely want to do so.”

“Sure, perhaps. But my success rate is quite pathetic.”

“Success rate? Of friendship?” He adjusts to face Scrooge more fully, who half-nods. Bob folds his hands in his lap and twiddles his thumbs. “… Lucie-Mae.”

A full nod from Scrooge this time. Bob sighs.

“Eb, we’ve gone over this, haven’t we? You couldn’t have known the extent of her situation. And you didn’t want to scare her off. You know who is responsible for her running away? That nasty, hateful cad who disturbed us at work to prove a point.” His gaze travels where Scrooge’s does, a paper on the bedside table. “Call me a hopeless optimist, but I think she found that ‘somewhere safe’. No, I know. As long as there’s at least one other Ebenezer out there, she’ll find her way home and—"

“Out of harm’s way?” Scrooge guesses, and Bob agrees. “I will indeed have to call you a hopeless optimist then—and that is no insult. I’m actually very envious of that state of mind right about now.”

“I think you still have it,” Bob says. Scrooge rubs at his sprained wrist at this echo of Fred’s plea in the cemetery. “It may just be resting.”

“You have no way of knowing that, my dear Bobby.”

“I might if you told me anything straightforward about what’s going on up there! I—"  Bob seemingly collects his thoughts. With Scrooge's weak gaze turned away to the streams of light out a window he cannot see, Bob says in a fainter tone, "Ebenezer, I can't profess to know why things changed for the better, or how. What exactly in your life shifted that holiday season. But it did. In return I received a dear friend and confidante. That makes it a two way street, you know? I’m here for you. To talk about these things that trouble you."

"... Can I confide in you something, then?" Scrooge asks in a brittle voice.

"Of course, anything."

"I'm not really so sick as I say I always am." He waits for some sort of reaction to the admission. Bob does not afford him one.

"Well, yeah, we kind of figured," he remarks.

"No, Bobby, you don't understand." Scrooge shifts in his upright position. "I'm really trying to be."

"What? Why would you...?"

Shamefully Scrooge casts his gaze downward. He twists his bracelet with a soft smile and eyes glassed over. This man once larger than life and scarier than death, continues to speak as if confessing to a grave crime. "I had a hard time for a long while. Made it harder still for others. But I-I'm told I was kind once. I've seen it, I've... I know it. There was love. There was Fan and Fred and B- and others. Then there was nothing. Nothing but me. Now, there's everyone again. There is Love and Goodness. Thing perhaps I am not so great with receiving but am overjoyed to give. And I can't help but wonder what of that is still me, what was always me. I know the good. I try, I try every day... But Bob, I am terrified of some hidden well running dry.

"I suppose I believe that if I spend every day possible tending to these seeds sprung from that well's water, and promptly go to sleep sick, or fall to my knees clutching my heart like my old man, at least no water was wasted. I don't know if I'd be remembered as a good man—God I hope, I hope, I would be—but I'd feel safe knowing I was, for every last second, Good. I am unafraid of dying a better man. I am scared shitless of waking up a worse one."

At the point of mention of Scrooge's father clutching at his chest, Bob had clutched his own. Scrooge fears putting his glasses on at this point, unsure if what he will see staring back is horror or disgust. All he hears is a watery exhalation of breath.

"Eb," Bob says shakily, "you're wildly misguided. Don't you see? You want to shut out the world just like before. Sure, instead not out of bitterness, out of fear. But listen! You fulfill your own prophecies if you heed to them. All because you're afraid of one stray 'Bah, humbug'."

Bob sidles closer if that’s possible, close enough that when he taps Scrooge's knee in a command to lock eyes his face is in clearer vision. He has never looked sterner. "Do you know how many times I or Emily have lost our cool around the kids? Maybe not as many as we think, but certainly more than we can ever be proud of. You know how many colorful things I've thought in the past when asked to stay late by my wretched boss?" With a wink and it draws a bark of a laugh out of Scrooge, though tears still fall from his reddened eyes. "I'm imperfect. Emily's imperfect. I don't always have nice things to say or think. And I can’t ensure all of my good deeds go unpunished—this world is too damn chaotic to ever have control over that. Am I less deserving of the love of my children, or my wife?” A loaded pause precedes, “Or yours?"

Scrooge is stunned. Foremost from such an affectionate declaration. But also because he never considered this. Bob Cratchit, imperfect. Yet here he sits, tall, free of shackles' guilt. He revels in every bit of the unevenly woven tapestry of 'human', wears it as a comforting blanket. Scrooge's has been covered in tissues and stale clothes. His skin, run so ragged underneath the warming metal, is stayed by Bob's hand, who loosens the band and moves it out of the way. He tends to the flesh with thumbs that move in calming circles. "These modest, shaming moments don't outweigh all the good. They simply cannot. We cannot allow them to. Please, my dear friend, release yourself of your chains."

They embrace. Scrooge weeps, burying his face into Bob's shoulder. The thick binding heavy around his heart snaps loose and a weight lifts off his chest—not completely, but enough to not feel so crushed. Bob adds, "Besides, you couldn't commit to devilry again. Emily would hunt you down with a butcher's knife."

Tears turn to laughter, melancholia to levity. The only major changes made that day, aside from sloppily drawn-up plans for the vacant rooms, are the moving of the Magnavox to a more central location and the additions to Scrooge's bookshelf provided by Martha. In the living room she and Peter take a gander at Scrooge's song notes and each take a stab at translating what remains untouched of the A-side. He is unsure of how much more or less accurate they are compared to his. He loves them all the same.

The stars will return to me

In my cloudless sky...

Golden dreams

They descend gently towards you

Sleep, my dear, for tomorrow

I will kiss you with the sun

“What's going on, Mr. Scrooge? It’s Jim. I, uh… I hope you’re well. We’ve had our fair share of roadblocks this year. Couldn’t keep us down, though! Got our permits. Turned the place into something real nice. And there's some more good news on our end. Della, darling, did you still want to—? Okay, here's Della.”

"Hi Scrooge! We were going over this month's expenses at my store and guess what? It's looking great. We're not in the red anymore! Haha! Relieving our debt was already so huge, and it's paying off more with your financial advising this year. Gave the girl a fish then taught the girl to fish. So, yeah. Needed to thank you again. Jim is still searching for 'his thing', but whenever that is, and wherever he goes, we wish Eb & Co. nothing but the best, and we'll be referring other folks to you guys. And, haha, if you ever need another hat to gift, it's on— (Whuh? What's that, Jim? Why shouldn't I ment— OH.) I, e-er... If you ever need anything, we're here. Goodnight and take care, Mr. Scrooge."

STAVE VIII. The Blood Vessels Widen

They are opened come mid-September. Any official re-opening party is postponed by the warning of an incoming deluge. Any plan to reschedule such a party is thwarted entirely. On a pouring night, at eleven weeks and three days, there is a voice smaller and higher than the usual on his machine.

“H-hi. Mr. Scrooge? Are you there? Hey. It’s Lucie-Mae. I know it’s late, I’m sorry. I—”

Scrooge nearly busts his tailbone running down the stairs and slipping down the last steps. He fights through what he can already feel to be a bruise forming and ignores the throb of his ribs rebelling against sudden movement. Spitting the last of the toothpaste from his mouth into the kitchen sink, he picks up the phone with a shaking hand. “Lucie!”

“Mr. Scrooge!” She sounds surprised that he did indeed pick up.

“My God,” he breathes a massive sigh of relief and has to steady himself against the counter to bar himself from doubling over. “I thought I’d never—” he holds the phone away from him to succumb to his tears. Then, pulling himself back together, he puts the phone to his ear once more. “Oh, I was so damn frightened. You’d disappeared—”

“I-I  did,” she says shakily. “I did.”

“Where are you? Are you hurt? A—”

“I'm using the pub's payphone right now. If you're home I'll—”

"Stay. Stay right there."

He is at first so frazzled he treks the first half on foot. When he registers he didn't even bother to pull his hood on he flags down a cab and all but rolls out when entering the pub. Still half-damp from making her way here in the rain she does look and smell a mess but Scrooge cares not a mite. He wraps her in a strong hug when he finds her standing by the booth they so often occupy. Scrooge's healing middle aches from exertion— to him it's no pain at all. He feels like he can breathe again.

“Oh, my child,” he sobs. “I missed you so.”

“I missed you so, too.” Lucie, at first tense, relaxes into the hug and breathes her own sigh of relief. “I’m sorry for just leaving—”

“Yes, where? Where did you go to?” He pats down her matted hair with cracked palms; steps back to scan for injuries or anything else so egregious.  “Please tell me no harm’s come to you.”

“Define ‘harm’,” she rejoinders dully. They sit and speak so that Scrooge won’t drive himself into a tizzy with what-ifs.

She recounts her story. Her father's misplaced fury—“I’m glad some time passed with that, if only you’d seen the state of my face”—her push to grab what she could, what was important, and run—“I was in such hysterics I couldn’t think, I just wanted to get out”— and how she managed after the fact, staying in libraries and churches and shelters, never in one place too long. "I made it far. Staying wasn't an option."

"I thought you had somewhere safe to go to? On your note, you..."

She bows her head to look at her dirty fingernails. The fingerless gloves are gone. Any remaining evidence of what they may have been concealing have long since faded. "I regretted that note the second I stopped writing. Meant to tear it, toss it, anything, but I got caught with it and panicked. Left it behind."

"Why would you regret writing that? I might've been double the nervous wreck without it."

"Couple reasons." She scratches at the wooden table. "Worried about anything giving myself away in case my dad..." A fearful expression overtakes her. "Mr. Scrooge, the things he said... how he 'knows people'. H-how if he ever saw me again he'd... he'd—"

"Say no more," he says and lays an arm on the table with the offering of an open palm. She reaches for it. "You're safe. No one has seen him either in some time. He's gone and you're safe." Any last resolve finally breaks. She cries silently and Scrooge places his other hand atop her small one to envelop it warmly, securely. A mug of hot cocoa finds its way to the table and is slid over to Lucie. Scrooge makes brief eye contact with Valentine, exchanging looks of gratefulness and understanding, and she makes her quiet exit, discreetly wiping at her eyes before moving on to another table. He gives Lucie's hand a last squeeze and releases.  He gives her a few minutes of silence so she can collect herself and drink her cocoa.

“Why didn’t you come to me, dear?" Scrooge eventually asks with a shake of his head. "I’ve been here all this time.”

“That's the other reason,” she admits. “I believed father’s lies. He told me all sorts of things. ‘That Scrooge is a wicked man. He told me what a nuisance you are. He made me give him a portion of my earnings to keep you here and out of his life. Filthy, useless child.’”

“Like hell!” Scrooge exclaims and then looks around apologetically. Those at the bar turn their heads briefly but decide they don’t care enough. In this instance Scrooge will accept that. “You believed all of that?”

“I…” She rubs at her puffy eyes. “I didn’t want it to be true. But all those things got to me and I felt so silly to be writing to someone who may not care. I was so afraid of coming right to you to find that out and him proving to be right. You are a great friend and mentor, Mr. Scrooge. I didn’t want to be your burden.”

“How dare you,” Scrooge says, but there lays no viciousness or condemnation. Only a dismay that she had already decided her worth for him. “You are no burden.”

"I know that now, I think." She gives him a soft tired smile. "Maybe this is stupid, but I came back because I just felt so lonely. I panicked in reverse. I'm glad I did. So many people who pass me on my routes… They told me you’d been looking everywhere. I chanced coming here, same thing. The minute you walked in I could tell everything he said was a load of bullsh—" Her face reddens and she holds the mug high enough to conceal her mouth. "Load of rubbish."

"Lucie-Mae," Scrooge says, "There are hundreds of different words to express this sentiment. I can say, with my whole heart, that 'a load of bullshit' is the most correct way to interpret everything that's come out of that man's mouth." It's meant earnestly; he still can't help but double down when it gets her to laugh. "It is the biggest, most tremendous load of complete and utter bullshit this world has yet seen. And I roamed with the dinosaurs, I've heard it all. That says something, now doesn't it?"

Scrooge can't help but laugh for the joy of seeing her do so unabashedly. When their fit of hysterics dies down she lays her head against the window and says, "I think that's the first time I laughed in months." Her smile turns watery. "You woulda gotten along with Grandma. Polite and proper, till she'd say something like that to make me feel better."

"I wish I could have met her," Scrooge says.

“She used to protect me, you know," Lucie murmurs and grips her mug tight. "Could either quell his moods or... take the brunt of them. I’ve been so lost since she’s two years passed. All I want is to talk to her.”

Scrooge chews on his lip, considering his next words. Carefully he ventures, "If you're not quite sick of churches yet, could I show you something?"

Lucie marvels quietly at the architecture of the cathedral and nearly stumbles from tilting her head to eye the ceiling as she walks. Scrooge shows her the candles. 

"I don't know how fastidiously you observe this stuff," he whispers. "I don't spare judgement. But this has helped me when I am missing someone dearly. I light a candle. And then I kneel and I speak to them in my head. Prayer to some, but call it what you will. Maybe you could speak to your grandmother and find some peace. Yes?"

He is prepared to leave if she is disinterested; but she nods and lights a candle. Scrooge lights two. They kneel beside one another and pray. He hears sniffles beside him and sees her resting her head on her interlocked fingers clasped tightly. He leaves her undisturbed. It's between her and her grandmother.

This, now, is between him and his loved ones at opposite ends of the Other Side.

Fan, he thinks first:

I will never not wish you were here. You would not break Fred's heart like I do. It came easier to you to love what you love with all your might than to hate what you do not. It is not a comparison game though, is it? My greatest wish is to emulate those things you taught me, not to compete. Funny— you were the baby but giving me all the life lessons, ha.

 

I don't intend to greet you again so soon. How I would like to if only to hug you. But I never intended to treat my body and mind so poorly as I have recently. You would be devastated over it. This new life is a blessing, it's enthralling! A perfect thing— gifted to an imperfect man. Spirits of the Past, Present, and Future strive within me. If they still manage that in spite of my stupidity, I can manage anything. And I can, and I must, for those who need me. Like the Cratchits. Like Fred. Like Lucie-Mae.

 

I love you always, dear sister.

With a shaky exhale, Scrooge speaks to the other. Jacob, he thinks:

'Scrooge'. 'Marley'. I answered to your name as well as mine. There was no distinction.

 

Your years on earth were spent growing your wealth. Humanity, love, generosity- they were of no interest to you. So we got on well. There was no difference between Scrooge and Marley, Marley and Scrooge. Yet I never thought about you. Not once. December twenty-fifth of last year marks a beginning, and from that beginning to now, not a day goes by you do not haunt my thoughts. Not a night passes you do not haunt my dreams.

 

I found myself furious with you again. For not answering my questions. For not participating in my self-flagellating search for judgment. That was never your job. I assigned it to you because I am an old fool who can't let go. And I am sorry.

Perhaps I am the Ghost and I haunt myself. I am The Ghost of What Never Was. The Ghost of What Never Shall Be. But that, my dear friend, is your doing. These Spirits spring from what your warnings brought me: hope. What a dangerous thing to give someone! But how much worse it feels to have none of it. I am blessed to have hope again. It's a virtue that asks to be felt and so I will abide.

 

I am nothing Almighty. I cannot tell God who is deserving of a kind eternity and who isn't. But as someone who wishes to extend mercy the way it was given to me, I must plead for the soul of my friend who in death saved my own. Must, in good faith, hope with each prayer another link off your chain falls. With every good act I carry out on earth rippling outward, some of your debt is relieved.

I long for any sign that this is possible. Greedless, I will not expect it. Mercy to you— my dear, departed friend.

When he is done he sits back on the pew and breathes deep as if coming back to the surface for water. "Who do you pray for?" Lucie asks hesitantly. She still kneels but with hands lowered and unfolded.

"My late sister who is at peace. And my late friend who may not be." At her curious look he extrapolates: "He wasn't very pleasant in life. But neither was I until last year. In this instance I don't believe my prayers can sooner change that than I can lift a boulder. To no avail, I still do anyway."

"Then I will pray for him, too," she responds with a resolute nod. She looks forward and bows her head once more, praying with renewed vigor. Scrooge loves her like his own blood.

There's no question about it— she returns to Scrooge's residency. He feels little guilt for waking Emily and Bob Cratchit up with a phone call requesting any spare clothes in a young girl's size so she can bathe and rest comfortably in clean sleepwear. The Cratchits feel little ire being cabbed over at midnight with a handful of clothes and other amenities Scrooge didn't ask for. Scrooge and Bob discuss the future while in the bathroom Emily tends to Lucie with a brush to unknot her unkempt hair. 

When all is said and done it's near two in the morning. Bob and Emily give Scrooge a hug and kiss on their way out. He takes the living room sofa and lets Lucie take his much more comfortable bed and will not hear anything about it.

That entire week is grey and raining and makes the thought of replanning anything too strenuous a task for all parties. Scrooge must tend to Lucie anyway; the safety of shelter and a familiar face allowed her body's immunities to at once let their guard down, and she's out for the count with the sniffles. This is incentive for all the Cratchits to drop by so Bob and Emily may make a gargantuan pot of soup. Fred, whose summer-long project of attempting to grow a small vegetable garden, is summoned to hand over forgotten ingredients. Clara tags along and arrives with a husband who is more excited than Scrooge has ever seen any non-geriatric individual to finally make use of his harvested tomatoes and carrots. Lastly Jim and Della are invited so Scrooge may conspire with both on how to transform one of the vacant rooms into something more appealing for a young girl. They do not get the memo on dinner plans and so arrive with a little too much takeaway to help feed little Lucie, who they did know to be feeling ill. No one complains about the surplus of chicken and egg rolls.

Lucie makes distant, subdued appearances, still quite pale from sickness and intimidated by the gathering. At her station— sat near the bottom of the staircase, wrapped in a blanket— she smiles anyway when addressed by friendly faces and giggles as she interacts with Tiny Tim through the bars of the railing in a goofy manner. She even gives her assist in a dogpile incited by Martha and Peter to get Scrooge to sing those Italian songs. Everyone teases and cheers when he does, attempting to harmonize to melodies they don't know.

And it's here, Scrooge realizes, that they have still come together to celebrate nothing other than togetherness. It's found here on an odd weekday, sheltered from crap weather and sat on floors when there's perfectly good sofas, eating homemade soup and mistake takeaway. Amidst this and all the comforting yammer and peals of laughter, Scrooge could swear it was Christmas. And his spirit is light.

He dreams of fading fog and a city now in view. In the expanding Somewhere, Marley is absent.

STAVE IX. A New Baseline

“You don’t need to cover my eyes, I got them closed already!”

“I’m not covering them!”

“My vision got even blacker just now, you’re covering them.”

“Hush hush, this is all part of it. I swear. Trust your Papa Eb.”

She had insisted on calling him that. More often than not she defaults to simply ‘Eb’, newness of her situation a fragile seesaw that jumps from excitement to overwhelm. On the ‘up’ days of excitement, ‘Papa Eb’ will slip its way into her lexicon. Today Scrooge is quite confident this is and will remain an ‘up’ day. A few more tentative steps and he announces, “Alright, hold out your hands. Excellent, brilliant. Now, open your eyes.”

Lucie blinks them open, initially confused by what could be different on the second floor hallway she has already walked about. Then she shifts her sights downwards to her hands and—“My hat!?”

“I know it’s nothing grand, but consider it a very, very late birthday gift,” Scrooge says,  “Della is a milliner. Er, hat maker. Martha works with her and I couldn’t remember exactly how the first one looked... Ah. Long story short, I commissioned her some time ago to make you this replacement but never got around to actually gifting it.”

As Scrooge is talking she nods rapidly and rotates the sparkling hat in her hand, assesses it from all angles with a beaming smile. “I can't believe you remembered! It's amazing. Thank you. If a queen wore caps instead of crowns…”

Scrooge tucks his hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling quite sheepish. “Nothing less than a coronation-worthy gift.” 

“In that case!” She hands him the cap and with a faux-regal demeanor. “Sir, would you be so kind?”

He cuts off his laugh so that he may get into character. The cap is held high and Lucie curtsies. He lowers it with a flourish and places it atop her head. In a grand, auspicious voice, he proclaims: “Your Highness. I declare on this very day, the Royal Court shall bow before their new Queen. The Great, the Kind, the Clever Queen of these realms, Lucie-Mae.”

Martha’s work paid off; the hat fits her effortlessly. Scrooge bows (moreso tilts slightly forward, in case any bones in his upper half decide to disagree with him today) and Lucie asks how she looks. 

“There’s a mirror in here. Want to see it for yourself?” With mounting nerves Scrooge goes to unlock the door they stand outside of, one she has not been in yet.

He doesn’t wait and with a click the door is pushed forward. A gleam in her wide eyes, she walks in and Scrooge follows suit.

He did not dillydally her first few weeks here. The room of memories still requires its own fixing— it's not host-like to set up a cot in a room full of mothballs— meaning two other vacant rooms were tidied. One of them she's been sleeping in, unofficially an official guest room, is barebones. With all of the processes Scrooge had to go through to confirm there would even be a Lucie for a room to shelter more permanently, he has made it amply comfortable but been forced to keep it simple. Jim and Della have since helped map out the other vacancy, which he begins work on as soon as he knows for sure there will be a Lucie.

The room—her room—not overwhelmingly pink, but still carries a softness to it. Pastel walls; gingham duvet in powder blue piping. Chunky area rugs with threads like mop dogs. They're jewel-toned, a sharp magenta, hardly appealing or complementary to the walls. It is mismatched and picked with a poor eye and Della approved the haphazardness, called it ‘perfectly young’. A desk in cream white bearing a hutch sits beside a floor-length mirror which she now looks through. From where Scrooge stands it reflects an inscrutable stare.

"Is this...?" She lets the question trail off. Meets his reflection's eyes. He nods, beaming.

Then Lucie giggles. It bubbles out of in a way that seems to surprise her. She claps and spins like a girl even smaller than she already is and ping-pongs around the room to look at everything. He is second guessing some of the dolls he purchased, she is probably well past the age of playing with Barbies, but she doesn’t seem to care, admiring them as much as everything else. Even the spaces left purposefully bare so that she can decorate it however she wants are appreciated. She hops onto the bed with a plop among the soft bunnies and teddy bears for a millisecond then hops right back up and runs to Scrooge.

"So I'm guessing you like—oof!"

“It’s perfect.” Her voice is think with tears.

“Really think so?” Scrooge says.

“You kidding? I never—" She shakes her head. Muffled against his chest she asks, "All of this? Just for me?”

"Oh, my darling." He pets her hair dotingly. "Just for you."

The coals are well warmed up enough now. Scrooge feels the warmth of his house becoming a home. Just in time for the colder months. This will be his second Christmas, but the first in decades where he is looking forward to Christmas all the while. He gets the best tree his house can accommodate for and everyone makes a day out of decorating it. Lucie gets the honor of topping the tree and Scrooge has his dear Tiny Tim be the one to light it.

Eb & Co.'s employees decide New Years Eve will secretly double as their celebration long put off. They will be toasting to new clientele as much as they will be toasting to the possibilities of 1989. Jim excitedly tells Scrooge and Bob he may pursue a career in architecture. The two older men thought commitment to all the space planning and interior design work for the offices would leave someone fed up. It had the opposite effect on Jim. More schooling leaves him apprehensive but Scrooge and Bob motivate him to take the leap.

All in all, there is a lot to celebrate.

One evening early that Christmas season, with Lucie at the Cratchits, Scrooge sits at his booth with two lists. One for gifts and one for New Years (the least he can do for his nephew is help plan for it). He discusses this idly with a Valentine who's wiping down a nearby table. The Cratchits, of course, are coming, and Fred's place being bigger now, has told others to not be shy about extra guests.

"Perhaps I'll go if Martha would like me to tag along," she notes in a bubbly tone. "Is that all the same to you, Mr. Scrooge?"

"Of course! The more the merrier, really. And I'm not the one hosting anyway."

"Ah, not your mess to clean up," she notes playfully.

"You said it, not me," he says innocently. She laughs and goes back to her tasks as Scrooge goes back to his. He notes in the quieter ambience (few patrons are here tonight) a melody he latches to subconsciously and hums under his breath. "Sogni d'or... Scendon lievi verso te..." Upon truly registering it he locates the source and puts down his pen. "But you couldn't be singing Baker, young lady?" he says.

"Good ear!" Valentine grins. "Woah. That's the first time someone's ever recognized that song."

"Well of course, how could they! You can't find it on any record here."

"So I've been told." There's a soft and distant look in her eyes. "It's one of those songs I got sick of cause I'd heard it a hundred million times. By a hundred million and one, I was older and it circled back around to being nostalgic."

"The fellow is said to be a charmer," Scrooge says. She agrees with a chuckle.

"Sure is. Or was." With a more solemn look she shakes her head and absent-mindedly wipes her rag over an already clean table for something to do. "Call me dramatic but I nearly called out of my shift in May when we got news."

"Oh, it was a rotten day," he validates with an equally pained look. "Broke my heart to hear."

"I'm all the more grateful I saw him when he was back here in '86."

Scrooge's eyes widen. "At Ronnie Scott's?"

"At Ronnie Scott's," she enthuses. "My ma uses that whenever she needs me to do something for her. 'Hey, remember that time I took you to see Chet Baker at Ronnie Scott's?'"

Scrooge laughs. "I can't say I'm not jealous. And how wonderful for your mother to gift you such an experience."

"We definitely needed it," she says. "My dad died that same year. We needed something joyful to keep us sane. It's what made Baker's death hit real hard, I think."

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Scrooge says with a hand to his heart. 

"I am too," she says with a sad smile. "Thank you. That's when I knew Martha was a true friend. The Cratchits came to the funeral, and Martha was always checking in on us. Such a beautiful soul. Ma might come to this party too, she hasn't seen them in a while and she feels quite indebted."

"I so look forward to seeing you all at the party, then."

And so he did. With all the Cratchits, Lucie in tow and Tim at his side, they approach Fred's residence. 

"Is it gonna be loud?" Tim asks. Peter hangs back to ruffle his hair which Scrooge tuts at.

"What do you think? It's New Years and there's fireworks and loud drunk adults." He snorts, then nearly slips on a patch of ice. Lucie comes to walk in front of Scrooge so she may take his little hand and walk together. She swishes her dark velvet scarf at Peter when he regains his footing.

"That's karma," she says pointedly to which Peter blushes and hangs back. Scrooge lets the infraction slide. "Don't worry Timmy. The study's always quiet. I'll probably want to hide away if it gets too noisy, too." She looks back at Scrooge with a glint in her eyes. "We'll steal all the sweets for ourselves when the champagne makes them swim."

"Indeed you will," Scrooge warns with a faux strictness. She and Tiny Tim giggle in conspiracy. Though Tim is not his flesh and blood, same as Lucie, seeing them both bond with this ease arises a warm and paternal sort of joy. In a way, he has two children. Bob and Emily lock eyes with Scrooge, perhaps thinking the same thing, with coy looks and great fondness. He tries not to go red.

She did find the attention and goings on too overwhelming, quicker than Tim; for most of the party they relegate themselves to a quieter, peaceful room. 

"Maybe she would like to develop a green thumb as well?" In the kitchen Scrooge throws out suggestions to Fred whose taken such joy in having this new little cousin. He seeks ways to bond with her like he does so with Scrooge. Fred's endeavor for the winter is a tea garden.

"What an idea!" Fred says. Clara, just joined with a champagne flute in each hand, gives one to Fred and kisses his cheek.

"She could also be sous chef to the sous chef," she says mirthfully. "The girl's played with matches for fun and I still trust her to not set fires."

"Clara, my darling niece, mercy," Scrooge bemoans. "It was one time."

"I'm a forgiver, not a forgetter." She hands the other flute to Scrooge and kisses him on the cheek as well.

"And how she loves to use her arsenal to make fun ad infinitum." Fred's accusation is said in a dreamy manner. Clara accepts it as a compliment.

The idea does grow on him; establishing a family activity could be a good thing for him and Lucie. Bob has already been so adamant about strengthening their family units as well. Scrooge passes by him and Jim in conversation and hears bits about architectural classes. Bob's eyes flit up briefly and he brightens, raising his glass to him slightly. Scrooge mirrors it with a wink.

What a strange year, he thinks to himself, truly absorbing the absurdity of each burgeoning connection and discussion of life goals. He laughs about it on his way back to the living room, and between sips of champagne, and stops laughing upon Martha's greetings to her good friend just arrived. 

Valentine eyes him kindly yet with new appraisal. Scrooge believes that all has to do with the mother who's been made aware of the party's rabble, most centrally Scrooge, and thus enlightening her own daughter to certain contexts. The circle convene in growing awareness— Emily, Martha, Valentine, and—

"Belle."

It's hardly a breath. Less than a gasp. A mere exhalation of air that carries history. Some song that's been on the tip of his tongue for years and now has revealed itself in full again. Wondrous, wondrous melody.

"Scrooge," she says. He expects disdain or disinterest. Not so. Her ramrod straight posture and folded hands imply caution but her eyes sparkle same as ever, warm with recognition. Not a drop less of elegance and beauty, only one that has matured and grown into itself the way Scrooge ought to have. 

Scrooge isn't sure what to do next. Valentine and Martha (smart girls) suggest they and Emily speak elsewhere 'should these two want to speak more privately'. They sit near one another at the kitchen dining table, one chair apart. In their corner they are afforded space and quiet from the party's jolly carousers.

"What are the odds, eh?" Scrooge starts somewhat awkwardly.

"Leave it to that girl to omit the biggest details when telling me about her day, every day," Belle sighs long-suffering.

"Adolescents can be strange." His eyes widen and he sputters. "Not to say Valentine is strange, that's not what I... Ha, no, quite the opposite. She's livened the energy of that old pub. It's not quite so... dour anymore. It's, um, she's— yes. Unstrange." He longs for another glass of champagne.

"I see you still have a way with words," she says, corners of her lips quirked upward.

He chuckles and rubs a thumb atop his other wrist, healed from its sprain— free of silver. It falls silent.

"I've no idea what to even say right now," Scrooge says after some time. Then retracts it with, "Well, that's a lie. I do. It's several sorries."

"Several sorries," she echoes neutrally. She sits straighter, nods her head once to him to prompt him on. Open to what he has to say. He clears his throat.

"First, a sorry— no, a great condolence— for your harrowing loss. You need not talk about it, I won't bring it up further than that if you feel so. But that's a true and genuine sorry for such a thing to grieve too soon."

Her jaw tightens but, eyes watery, she holds a hand to her heart in an indication of a thank you.

"Another sorry," he continues, "for getting lost in things that never meant half as much as you. I turned to self-preservation. That doesn't excuse it, I know, but... I'm through being ignorant about what made me so foolish. I cannot change the past any more than I can predict the future. All I know now is, in this present moment, I am a changed man with an odd family I am fighting every day to be worthy of deserving. And these sorries don't have to be forgiven. They're just here to be given."

Another stretch of silence follows. He adds, "And one final sorry for how I've not kicked the habit of rambling on like a fool around you. Your patience is vast." Then he puts his hands up and confirms, "I am done."

Belle's mouth upturns further this time. She interlocks her fingers and examines them shyly. But with a sureness she makes his heart thump faster in saying, "Thank you for all of that. I mean it. I would like to forgive you. And I will. That means first I need to meet this Scrooge. Maybe in speaking more— not at a boisterous party— we can be on our way to that." She puts up a hand as he opens his mouth to speak and she specifies, "I cannot do romance. Whole sale, it's something I just can't fathom right now."

"I expect nothing," Scrooge assures. "I want for nothing from you. Save for a hope we can nurture a new friendship. At the very least, a much longer conversation for closure. Whatever you want and whatever you need."

Something in her expression hurts. The amount of feeling either experience in this moment is jumbled, vast. It will take time to unravel, Scrooge knows this inherently. She holds his hand briefly and gives it a comforting squeeze. "I'm not staying here long. The older I get the more I look forward to getting into my pajamas at a reasonable hour."

"Preaching to the choir," Scrooge sympathizes, and she laughs in earnest. She squeezes his hand again and releases it.

"Valentine will relay you my number. I leave the rest to you." She stands and gives him a meaningful look. "I'm happy to see you again, Eb. To see you."

So is Scrooge.

"(No, no, Lucie, I should just call back when— Oh damn, it beeped?) Hello? H-hello. It's me. I've had this answering machine for a year but never actually left a message myself. Normally I just hang up and retry later when I hear a voicemail, but... Not the point. I was ecstatic to see you again, Belle. The firm is closed for the holiday, so I am around. Not Scrooge & Marley anymore, by the by. A lot has changed— and there is so much I would like to tell you.

The joy within him remains as it had last Christmas. Sadness and fear did too, and did so louder. Threatened to stomp out the joy. But through such renewed love of life, others have come to love him and help hold him steady on darker days. Living Christmas all year 'round is the goal to fight for. Ebenezer Scrooge, like all others, is fallible, and to keep Christmas in his heart is also to find it fighting against anxieties and second guesses and guilt for priority. But he changes the point of view. He does. He can no longer dwell on what has gone wrong. He seeks what good he can do.

And Ebenezer Scrooge can do much good. No matter the dark days, the aching sickly ones, the ones of trivial frustrations, he will never stop doing good. It makes this life all the more meaningful.

"... Thank you again. For speaking with me, for... everything. It's a new year. I feel much is in store, and much of it is—"

There is a mechanical click, the sound of his voice in the receiver gone from tinny to crystal clear, and a conversation begins.