Chapter Text
"It's Christmas," was an abnormally normal thing to exclaim around the edge of the year, with the forts of snow and littered branches, and the dazzling fairy lights across the neighbour's house, yes, no one could miss its conspicuousness, especially not them; the horsemen lurking in the retreats of their own Victorian home, dare their wandering eyes even glance past the porches of stockings and green wreaths?....Of course not, Mot chuffed a chilly breath, not that it was even common for a skeleton to heave.
He pulled the curtains close, jingling the rings that cuffed the pole above, and held them in place. The shaft of sunlight stopped filtering in, trapped at the borders of the moth-eaten cloth. And even then, the whole house was a standstill, because nothing ever seemed to happen inside, contrary to the presence of their inhabitants. The fireplace crackled with charcoal and etched the marks of ashes and half-cut logs within, and often Mot caught glimpsed the flames flickering back and forth, which led to some suspicion that perhaps, there was a hole somewhere in the walls that allowed ribbons of a passing wind to intrude.
But of course, that wasn't important, he was not amused- this was how they spent Christmas every year, after all. Through the pelting of rain, or embankment of snow growing by the edge of their doorstep, it didn't matter, for they were trivial things, such as how Mot saw their current state: Retired beings of calamity resorting into a quiet, tranquil life, who once thought they were significant, but in reality, they were just books, and despite the harm they may bring to the minds of humanity, they were powerless should they be forgotten ; hence the explanation, anyway.
"Ugh, it's Christmas, what are you guys even doing in here?"
The front door clicked open rather roughly, and Mot snapped his head away from the flurry of black-white texts of the newspaper in hand, standing up. He heard the shuffling of slippers and his doormat (which, with the words 'WELCOME' half faded, didn't add to help the mystery swarming up the house) being ruffled in the process, before a skinny figure or shadow, loomed the walls of the entrance.
"Miss Trisher," he forgot when, but he never switched from the whole last name basis concept to calling her first, "What business do you have here today?"
"What?" he saw the faint outline of her striped yellow shirt swaying, then her whole body erupting into the living room, and she had this usual look of both contemplation along with scrutiny, but regardless whatever she expressed, it would only be either, or none at all, "It's Christmas, aren't you guys going out or anything? And..where are your decorations?" She placed her taut, scrawny arms around her waist, examining the dark, barren ceilings and floorboards which contributed in decoration only with unneeded creaks when stomp on.
"Ah," Mot pushed up the frame of his glasses to the bridge of his bony nose, his hands by his back as of perpetuation lately, "You must be wondering why we don't hang up decorations or Christmas trees. Well, truth to be told, Christmas is a disturbing time for us, despite what happiness it might bring for you humans."
"...So, basically," Angela held up a finger to stop him on the spot (Mot had a gut instinct that if he tried to get past that gesture, she would raise her voice so that it was higher than his, because it was a feeling that even his dark threats might not even stop her decibels then), "You're jealous?"
How she came up with that anti-climatic and not to mention, ridiculous, conclusion was beyond even his century wise of intellect.
"...what gave you that idea?" he had to inquire, because despite being an attribute created by humanity, he still understood little of what they think and act, which said a lot about his ignorance of his past, and served no good to that either way.
"Uhm," Angela must have felt the same way, that her response was inappropriate, because her eyes noticeably drooped and shot to the corner of the drawing room, along with her growing grimace (but honestly, it was the unchanging expression of Mot that concerned her well-being, really), "You know, cause you said about it being happy for us and all, so I assumed..." Her voice trailed off, because temporarily her mind failed to call up any more explanations to that, so it resulted in a fast drop for the atmosphere.
"That we weren't happy?" Mot offered to fill in the blanks.
"......I, well," the corners of Angela's lips twitched involuntarily to a wide, awkward, smile, "Uh, never mind what I said. That was a bit stupid, but anyway...how's the gang?"
"The gang?" Mot repeated, but not rhetorical.
"I basically just asked how are you, or any of your colleagues are feeling for that matter," Angela's hands were back by her hips once more, "How's anything coming along? Are you guys busy? What about that newspaper you guys use to work on?"
"Not particularly busy," Mot replied, setting aside his rolled up newspaper on a table by the fireplace, "And we're feeling neutral, as usual. Things barely bother us these days. And as for the newspaper...we're trying, but there doesn't seem to be a lot of...activity circulating good acts right now, which is...unfortunate, of course. But if you're looking for the others, Marvin's upstairs using the computer with Warrace, and Pesty is in the basement."
"Hmm..." Angela audibly hummed, blinking at him, then narrowed her eyes, as though she was recalling something important, or trying to squeeze an idea into her mind, but then pulled her gaze away and grinned (this woman, Mot swore internally, she scares him with her unpredictable thoughts at times!). She proceeded to wordlessly trudge upstairs, and the way she marched up those steps flicked a hint of confusion in him, that she was so familiar with this place already (or perhaps, just some journalistic instinct), but shrugged it off by staring deeply into the fireplace again.
"Hey guys!" he heard her throw open the door above, then her voice trailed further away as she must have entered briefly, "....What are you guys doing?" And he heard no more.
"Angela, Marv bought one of those internet connection thingies, and now we can finally access the web," Warrace turned around, and she was just as beefy as she remembered him to be, with his strange red skin and wide grin, "We're currently looking at cooking recipes for roast turkey." He pointed vaguely at the monitor's bright screen, and there it was playing a video of a woman brandishing a stainless steel brand of knife at the board, explaining softly due to the lack of tuning the volume.
"But do you guys have turkey?" Angela frowned, leaning over one side of Marvin's shoulder, eyes on the screen, "Do you guys even have a fridge?"
"Of course we do," Marvin grunted, moving the black mouse around the table every few seconds, "We just don't have the turkey."
"Nor any other thing the lady mentioned in the video," Warrace murmured quietly to himself, to which Marvin must have taken offense to, turning around on his stiff, wooden chair, "Well, I'm sorry that we're POOR."
"But it's fitting, ain't it?" Warrace looked like he was about to collapse into a fit of laughter, wheezing stiffled chuckles through his bared grin, eyeing mainly at Marvin.
"Did you just-" Marvin paused the video, incredulous with his hands up to accompany the sheer expression on his face, "Did you just imply that just because I use to make people poor, I-"
"Pfft," Angela laughed a little, "Can't you guys just buy one? The mall is nearby, and it'll be just in time for Christmas."
Marvin recoiled and frowned, and Warrace seized his laughter at once, "Christmas..? We don't really uh, celebrate that."
"Well, there's a first time for everything," Angela huffed, sighing, "Look, it'll be a new experience. I'm willing to bet that you guys don't even know what a mistletoe is. Or the lyrics to 'Deck the Halls'. Or even basic shopping for anything, actually. The point is...." Angela raised both hands, but it was one of those extremely vague gestures defining subtlety and calmness, "How about you guys try to do Christmas for once? Maybe buy yourselves something nice. But you don't even have to decorate, or even buy anything, but I'm asking you to follow me for a very, teeny-tiny trip to the mall for a bit of shopping. Maybe it'll change your minds about Christmas then. So. What do you say?"
Marvin knitted his eyes together, and Warrace glanced skeptically at the other horseman, and their eyes flashed with concern and curiosity. Christmas was a bit foreign to them, regardless of what rumors might mention. Sure, they witness the savior being born, and hope being restored, but they were hesitant, because the snow outside didn't ease their manacles to the past, nor did the humans who were happy. What if something bad happened to them? But they sworn off their powers, didn't they..? But the biggest obstacle was inevitably, Mot. Trying to get him to budge was like attempting to recover from one of those indignant pop up advertisements which commercialized well, things, that it was possible, but difficult all the same.
"..Well, I don't know, Angela," Marvin spoke up, his eyes shifting from the screen and settled onto her, "Even if we wanted to, Mot..."
The rest was self-explanatory.
"But if Mot agrees, then it's a yes, right?" Angela worked out non-mathematical equations in her mind, reeling possibilities in and out, "Well, time to show him the power of convincing." Angela doubted her own conviction at the last word, but she had to try, one way or another to make him cave into it. It was such a simple request: LET US GO TO THE MALL FOR CHRISTMAS FOR A CHANGE THIS YEAR, but it seemed just a little challenging to persuade the horseman of death for her.
Well, go big or go home, she supposed.
"Pesty, are you down here?" she rapped at the basement door a few times, and when she got no reply she twisted the doorknob and sauntered down a tedious spiraled stairway composed of cement slabs stuck to the side of the wall, somewhat reminding her of Dominoes. The basement emitted a strange green light from the looming test tubes which bubbled occasionally in their plugged place. And bent over a long, scarred wooden desk was Pesty, in all of his short glory. Angela watched for a while, transfixed at his swishing, orange ponytail and his murmurs as he urgently uncapped several corks off their tubes, which she had no doubt must be his bacterium(s).
"Pesty, are those going to..invade my system again?" she abruptly asked, since the first incident here at this house left her unconscious for a few hours, and it was that which set her to meet them the first place, a burnt memory but a strange one nonetheless, "Like the last time?"
"Miss Trisher! I didn't see you there," he almost jumped, startled as his knee caps smacked the edge of the table, inducing a small wince. The tubes on the table top rattled and rolled, rocking. He clutched his knees in slight agony, but smiled anyways at the sight of a friend who's outside the perimeter of the three horsemen, "Uh, these? No, they're quite docile, as long as you don't get in their way...or uh, inhale them."
"But I'm standing right here-oh god," had she been respiring in contaminated airs again?
"No, no, it's fine, I've got it under control," Pesty assured her, waving his arms frantically, "I don't sense them in you, so you're still healthy." Angela sighed in relief as he mumbled to himself again, this time beckoning the air, before he tapped the cork back into place on the test tube. "Well, that aside, why are you looking for me?" he asked, picking up the remnants and slotting them neatly into a test tube rack on the side of the table. Once he was finished busying, he turned around and gave Angela one of his small, placid smiles again, "Why did you even come to visit us today? Ain't it Christmas up there?"
"Well, yes, which was why I came here the first place," Angela rubbed the back of her neck, eyes closed with contemplation to put it, "You see, I, uh, asked Marvin and Warrace if they wanted to come along with me for a little Christmas shopping trip in the nearby mall, and they agreed, but they mentioned Mot's approval in all that. But I would like to ask you, too, whether if you're up to joining me for shopping at all. I know that maybe you are guys and all, and probably don't shop as much as I do, but..."
Pesty did not take long to consider. A trip to a mall of people was a bit intimidating for him to interact with, but with the thought of seeing new things and a new atmosphere was refreshing, "Hm, I don't see why not. But Mot really is the stick between the gap, so how are we supposed to convince him?"
"Trust me, I've got an idea," came the shadiest and untrustworthy reply of centuries, but Angela wasn't in a mood for recherche right now, so she just signaled silently for him to follow her upstairs, along with the others to follow her to the main room.
X
"No. Absolutely not," Mot answered firmly, and he would have been considered glaring if he had eyes in his sockets, but it didn't need to grow a pair for Angela to see the solemness radiating off his growing, ragged hood, "First off, it's too risky. If someone sees us, they'll be spreading strange news, and we'll be haunted by the people of the church, or other deadly worldly forces. Second, we don't look human enough, which puts us back at the first- our appearance really matters too much."
"...you look like an old man in suspenders and you want to complain you're not human enough," Angela drawled, then face-palmed physically.
"Miss Trisher, I'm a skeleton disguised as an old man in suspenders," Mot corrected her sternly, "If some child comes waddling in my direction, they can immediately see that I am composed of bones, which will lead to parental fuss, and our cover being blown." As though to demonstrate his point, he mimed an explosion (a gesture Warrace often acquaints and is familiar with) and pulled the strap of his suspenders with the tip of his thumbs.
Angela stared at the four horsemen altogether; the big picture. Marvin looked like a shriveled vulture in a red piece of clothing, with his conspicuous, yellow beak protruding with sharp teeth, and overall, he looked most inhuman compared to Warrace or Pesty. Her mind turned, trying to click into sense of what could be done to improve that, and it finally snapped into place as she thought about gas masks. Maybe she could adjust a few strands of his hair so that they obscure minuscule parts of his beak, but the majority should be shielded with a white, surgical face mask with extended straps. The side of it could be covered up if Marvin wore clothes with high collars or in a sense of fashion, tufts of fur, like an exaggerated Lady Gaga outfit would do the trick. She squinted and focused the mental figure of him with those patch ups, and she nodded silently.
"She's trying to give us a make over," Mot whispered to the three horsemen with an internal voice that telepathically transmitted to their minds, to which he quickly saw the morbid expressions they gave in return at him. She ignored them to get a better view of Warrace, tuning out the additional noises in the background. A red man like that....she forced mental images of him in different clothing or appearance, trying to see if something would be suitable for him to wear, but appealing to not be noticed by humans the same time. "Top hat," she snapped her fingers, imitating the aura of a professional planner. If someone inquired about his red skin, she would answer for him that it was due to over tanning in the California sun. Speaking of skin, the idea of Marvin wearing black gloves and leather boots sprang into the midst of her thoughts, and she turned a bit to grin at him.
"Why is she looking at me like that?..." Marvin nudged Warrace, who fell into the veil of obedience to remain silent under the sweeping gaze cast by Angela. No one dared to move, even though she was human, there was something about her that made her seem like a mouse trap- one slip and she'll snap..or slap, in this case. And plus, they were curious either way, to see what she could come up for their poor choice of clothes (well, technically, not poor choice, but just...needs more human..), so they stared, but unfocused, thinking and tuning their mind to see if Mot was going to send another telepathic message.
"Mot can wear more layers of clothes to shield his skeletal structures..." she murmured, blinking profusely, then tilting her head again to the side to scrutinize that, "A hood and another surgical mask to shield his skull...leggings for his legs and boots for his feet!" Mot jerked into reality at his mention, "Leggings and hood? That's...a strange compliment of clothing for me...I would really prefer if you didn't, Miss-"
"You can't go out like that, case closed, now it's Pesty's turn," Angela turned sharply towards the shorter being, who dreaded his demise. "Please, nothing very bad for my clothing, please," Pesty grinned nervously, fidgeting his hands, then mentally screamed that this was what centuries of English as a lexicon contributed- 'nothing very bad'. He could have used 'disastrous', but he had to go with a sentence of crumpled, broken English. Too late to take back his words, but he didn't carry his own slip of wordings as no one seemed to notice anyway.
Oddly enough, she did not remark on his clothing.
"Lucky bastard," Marvin cursed as his freedom to his own clothing was foiled, "Unfair! Prejudice! Why doesn't Pesty get a change? Why just us?!" Marvin looked like a wild wreck as he swung his fist at the air, perhaps cussing out at God, then hissed at Angela, "No! You won't ever put on whatever nightmarish demonic clothing you have in mind! You can't make me!" Angela snorted at his breakdown, "Calm down, Ed, your clothing isn't going to look as bad as you think, trust me on this. Warrace, you have only minor changes, so fear not, along with Mot. The three of you are only going to have your clothing changed, that's all."
"May I ask, quoting directly from Marvin's question, why doesn't Pesty get a change? Why is it just the three of us? Despite appearances, Miss Trisher, Pesty does not actually look as human if he stands within a crowd," Mot spoke up, gesturing at the green horseman with much refrain, "Admittedly he is human enough in manners and appearance, but his skin...."
"I've got other plans for him," Angela halted Mot right there, which paled the complexion of horseman of diseases greatly, "Other..plans?" Not that he didn't trust her, no, but what if he was forced out of his clothing, and even worse, perhaps she wanted him to dress like a clown of sort? Little bit of dignity remained in him, and it bothered him to ever be concerned about his clothing...to think that such a day would arrive...
But Angela had already began leading Warrace and Marvin upstairs first, and Pesty sneaked them a glance of pity, as they would go first, but he suppressed those thoughts, wondering whatever could the human have for him in store. "..bullshit," he heard Marvin grumble before the door closed behind them, and only their shifting footsteps could be heard thumping the floors after that.
X
"Ta-da!" Angela exclaimed proudly at her handiwork. Marvin shook his head, sighing and cursing more audibly than ever, but in discreet he examined his gloves and strewn hair, remembering the old times, and laughable was that he used to be infatuated with this style of clothing. "There goes my last shred of dignity as a horseman," he never believed he would be able to even utter that, it was ineffable! But there he was, sauntering down the stairs with black gloves, long everything and wearing a coat with white fur at the rim, effectively shielding his beak and neck (but unfortunately, not his dignity). His white surgical mask seemed to be the only good thing that didn't tear away that last shred, or what was even left of it.
"Get a load of this dude," Warrace wheezed hacking laughter, his shoulders trembling and his grin uncontrollably wide. He jabbed a finger at a melancholic Marvin, trying not to spill out the build of cackles in his senses, "Look at him! Look at him, Mot! Does anyone have a camera? Ha-haha!" Mot did not look at either of them. Warrace slapped his knee, laughing and wheezing, not at all bothered by his only addition of a tall top hat, which, sad to say, was still not as ridiculous as Marvin's clothing. "Shut your damn trap, Warrace," the Lady Gaga gender-bend turned his heels abruptly and sneered, "Look at you, with your top hat! Unfitting!" But Warrace was lost in his hysterics of trying to contain his own laughter, and even Pesty chuckled, undignified.
"This is still pretty comfy," Warrace smoothed his clothes, "And cooling....Even though it's winter, I've been through worse." Marvin just harrumphed and sat arms-crossed on the couch, resorting to recite curses he recalled in books written by witches. Mot, of course, went next, but they couldn't read the grim expression on his face, or as a matter of saying, 'the stick up his ass', but no one said that aloud, not even in their minds. "Cheer up, Marv! It's not that bad," Pesty took a seat on the cushion besides him, trying to placate Marvin, "It looks like a weird fashion trend, that's all. In fact, I like the gloves..."
"Don't worry Mot you're doing great," Angela gave him a sloppy thumbs-up as he exited the room and slowly walked down the stairs, and all eyes in the living room turned to him. Oh no, they all thought simultaneously, so loud that he definitely heard the waves of that thought from this distance, Mot was by far the most well dressed, and human, after the help of Angela. His black boots clacked the floorboards, deeming that unworthy to be in his presence, but even that was an understatement, for death himself have never been so tempting to be, with his fancy, dark coat with polished buttons (Angela repeatedly scrubbed them, and Mot had to remain silent the whole process) and his hood was a part of his ragged, shadowy cloak that trailed midair behind him. His leggings were.."Didn't Angela said leggings?" Warrace remarked, "She changed it to pants!" The black, fitting pants on him only added to his flair of clothing, and now he looked like a strange, timely man, but humane.
"I call bullshit," Marvin yelled towards the stairs, "Why is he more better looking than us?"
"He looks better than you only, specifically!" Warrace hollered, launching himself into another overdrive of laughter, rumbling the cushion they shared.
Pesty chuckled, eyeing the stairs, that in the end, it was still his turn to be last, "I'm in danger." Warrace sent him off with a pat on the back, barely assuring as he was the most chaotic among them, but Mot gave a solid nod, "You'll be fine." He turned back to face the daunting stairs, which seemed to call out to him, that it was not his choice, that Angela was in position here to help him. Hesitantly, he cast an aloof gaze at Marvin who seemed to be the only reject, and could only hope luck wasn't about to choose him as the next victim. With that, he walked up the stairs and entered the room.
..."Gee, Angela is taking awfully long with Pesty," Warrace commented after counting to a full ten minutes on the cushion, shifting his weight on it, and on cue came the scream from upstairs, which belonged to their friend. The shriek sliced through the wad of silence, and for once, the house no longer came to a sudden standstill. "...Do you think he'll chicken out?" Marvin chuckled eerily, glancing at Mot's direction. Mot seemed stiffer than ever, and despite his rigid limits as a skeleton, he had never seemed so tense. "Why did he scream? Uh uh-uh, something must have happened," Warrace clicked his tongue, and even he couldn't solve the puzzle as to what shook the horseman a floor above them. Something really...terrible, maybe. "Don't tell me she stripped him or something, because that would really be-" Marvin whispered loud enough for them to hear, and Mot quickly instructed, "Erase that vile image of him in your mind, Marvin, or else..." Warrace held in laughter at his command, but one glance at Marvin's dumb clothing and he lost it again.
"I'm done guys," Angela finally opened the door and ushered him out, before shutting it behind her, "This is going to look out of place, but it suits him...I think." She strutted down the stairs before him, her hands outstretched like she was welcoming them to an exhibition or something. "I think she killed him," Warrace placed his bet. "Nah, he definitely chickened out," Marvin wagered otherwise, "Wait for it..."