Work Text:
If not for the television perched in the corner, Holden might not have known Christmas was in four days. Monochrome scenes from It’s a Wonderful Life shifted across the screen, intermittently interrupted by the shattered fuzz of bad reception. It broke apart the image of Jimmy Stewart trailing through slushy Hollywood snow: a Christmas in July on some studio set, sweet and artificial like saccharin.
Past the checkered table where Holden and Bill sat mulling over menus, the weather was less picturesque. The snow had piled high enough to cover the hubcaps of cars that had the misfortune of being parked there before the storm. Inside, the diner was emptier than Holden had ever seen it. In the two weeks he and Bill had spent in Anchorage, combing through national parks and following up on the leads laid out by previous investigators, it had been packed every breakfast, lunch, and dinner with truck drivers, townies and local cops. Even near closing, it was half-full, the smell of American hamburgers thick in the air.
Bill had been complaining about streetside diners since road school, but it was the only place they could find solace in between search parties and community meetings, high school gyms filled to bursting with concerned citizens. Christmas of 1982 had snuck up on Holden for those very reasons. He had spent most of December hunched over a stack of recently faxed case documents, too impatient to wait for the ink to dry and letting it smudge over his thumbs. The BSU had been the initial call made by the Anchorage Police Department just like Gunn wanted.
It came on a morning when Bill was in court, discarded paperwork from his divorce lawyer left on his desk. Holden, like he had many times before, had to make the decision to answer.
Bill set his menu down in front of him and turned to look out the window. Christmas lights were strung along the eavestrough at the edge of the roof, the multi colours reflected in his eyeglasses as they inched forward. Bill adjusted them with a press of his knuckle, sighing through his nose as the radio transitioned from one rendition of “Let It Snow” to another. Holden eyed him skeptically as Dean Martin crooned away.
“Not fond of Christmas carols?” he asked.
The question stiltedly fractured the quiet that was solidifying between them, coming out a bit more bitter than Holden intended. It expanded beneath the sound of forks and knives scraping against cheap, festive dinner plates, his sarcasm undeniable.
“Just a whole lot of fuss for nothing,” Bill said with a shrug. His eyes were on the wind blustered snow that cloaked the sidewalks outside. It glinted with the flicker of the streetlights, streetlights which offered some relief from the near constant darkness that plagued the region during winter. The sun had been setting at 3:30 PM most days, rising again well into the morning. “You know, Jesus was born in April, not December.”
“I did not,” Holden said, still stiff despite the humorous intonation attempting to break through Bill’s voice. “Seems like that should be Sunday school 101.”
Bill raised his eyebrows minutely, then went back to his menu, his disinterest as clear as the glossy photographs of customer favourites and apple pies baked in-house. “Right.”
Their small talk was strained. It had been since they arrived at the Anchorage airport in a plane too small and rickety for comfort. Holden had agreed to take on the case without much third-party consultation, besides some firm urging from Gunn. He half-expected Bill to sit this one out; his legal situation was not ideal for cross-country travel, but he had begrudgingly let himself get dragged along. Holden assumed Bill was pissed at him for not insisting a different unit take hold of the investigation, forcing them to spend the holiday season in the middle of nowhere surrounded by the untamed Alaskan wilderness and the bodies dumped on its outskirts.
Consequently—and understandably—Christmas cheer was in short supply.
Holden wondered if it was snowing in Virginia, if roads had also been closed and airplanes grounded. As they sat in silence, he imagined Bill thinking about home, or some rose-tinted version of it he held onto now that he and Nancy were separated and Brian was torn between them both. Holden could picture the Tench family Christmas with frightening ease: a plastic evergreen with glittering bulbs and fairy lights, red ribbon hooked along the mantel, a plate of half nibbled cookies set on the table. And then there would be Bill, Bill with his cigarette and black coffee breakfast, watching as Brian ripped gold and green wrapping paper from presents.
Holden spent a lot of time thinking about Bill and his family, enough time to warrant an evaluation of why he did so in the first place; but self-awareness was never his strong suit. He was afraid of what a good soul searching might dig up.
“We’ll have to wait a couple weeks for the snow to clear before we can continue searching the area,” Holden said, guilt stirring his chest, forcing him to say something, anything. “Captain McCarrod says they might need to dredge the lake where Victim Number 11 was found. The bureau already okayed it.”
Holden peered above the laminated edge of his menu, past a cornily named home-cooked burger and fries. Across the table, Bill had that look on his face, the one where all of his features seemed pinched. He sighed, throwing his thickly rimmed reading glasses onto the table, and pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose.
“Holden, I don’t know what more we can accomplish in these conditions,” he said. “At best, we have about five hours of sunlight to evaluate the scene, most of the lakes are frozen over, keeping us from retrieving any meaningful evidence, and my ass is starting to go numb from the cold.”
“I know, Bill, I know,” Holden said. “Which is why I think you should catch a flight out of here as soon as the weather clears up. Take a break, spend your Christmas away from this shit.”
Bill scoffed. “Gunn will have a fit.”
Holden shook his head. “No, not if I stay. I agree that one of us should be here until the primary investigation is over. However long it takes. I can take it from here.”
“Seriously?” Bill looked up at Holden, disbelieving, and fished a cigarette from the pocket of his casual flannel shirt. “You would volunteer more of your time to stay up here?”
“If I have to.”
Bill grimaced. The lines scored across his forehead and between his brows wrinkled like he was trying to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He took out the matchbook he grabbed from the cash counter on their way in and lit his cigarette, letting the match burn dangerously close to his fingertips before blowing it out. He tossed it in the empty ashtray.
“I don’t work for you, remember?” Bill said after taking a long drag, almost smug, in that way of his. He blew smoke towards the window, the glass fogging up in a misshapen cloud.
“Which is why I said you could go home,” Holden countered. He bit back a frustrated groan. “Look, Bill, I’m trying to do you a favour.”
“Favour? What kind of favour?” Bill’s words were sharp and gruff around the edges. Their eyes met, holding each other there, and then Bill was faltering. He looked down at his cigarette, perched between tensed fingers like a lifeline. “Who the hell do I have to go home to?”
Holden swallowed hard, willing himself not to shrink inwards. “What about Brian?”
“Not my weekend,” Bill replied bluntly. He took another shaky drag of his cigarette, then shrugged. “He’s spending the holidays with Nancy and her parents. Court assigned Christmases.”
Holden shifted and the plasticky material that lined the booth awkwardly squeaked. “Oh, I—”
The words died in his mouth before they could make their way out, the partial fault of Holden who had nothing except an apology readied, and the waitress who interrupted them, pen and notepad poised to take their order. Bill cleared his throat. He ordered a steak and a refill of coffee, while Holden picked the first item off the menu he saw. When the waitress left again, grease-stained apron swinging in tune with her teal uniform, Holden busied himself with realigning the sugar packets. Bill reached over to grab one and Holden quickly retracted his hand.
Bill cleared his throat a second time as he stirred his cream into his cup. “You think I’d rather go home to an empty apartment and spend Christmas there?” he said, looking down at the saucer as hazelnut coloured drips of coffee dotted the china. His voice nearly sounded soft, soft enough to tug something loose in Holden’s chest. Bill did that to him sometimes. “I’d much prefer the shitty diner food and watery coffee.”
Holden dipped his chin towards his chest as he smiled a small smile, the tension easing. “Did you just say you enjoy my company?”
Bill smirked. “Try not to push it.”
By the time they finished eating, Jimmy Stewart and friends were singing “Auld Lang Syne” and “Let it Snow” had come on the radio for a third and final time. Bill paid for their meals, tipping the waitress generously for her trouble, while Holden buttoned his coat and tightly fastened his scarf. The snow had refused to let up, covering their car in a cotton blanket like all the others that were left in the parking lot to freeze.
Wishes of “Merry Christmas!” and “Happy Holidays!” from the diner employees followed them out the door. Holden led Bill back to the car, brushing it off with several swipes of his coat sleeve. The radiator equipped motel would be a much-needed repose. As Holden moved to uncover the back windshield, his foot caught a patch of black ice and he stumbled, falling backwards onto his elbows with a muffled humph.
A pain shot through his tailbone immediately after he connected with the pavement, but it soon subsided. The snow, wet and clumpy enough to be packed down, broke the worst of his fall. Defeated and a bit embarrassed, Holden slumped fully onto his back, his nose pointed up at the sky. Snowflakes tickled his eyelashes and his cheeks as they drifted down from the clouds like clumps of feathers, sticking to his skin before melting altogether.
“Holden?” Bill asked, comically peering over the side of the car. “Shit. Are you okay?”
While make-believe cartoon canaries circled his head, Holden could hear Bill try to stifle a chuckle, try and fail and try again. After a moment, his laughter came out unbidden, breath and tobacco smoke fogging the air in front of him. It was one of the most boisterous laughs Holden had ever heard erupt from his chest. Holden began laughing too, a chuckle initially, then just as full and sincere.
As their laughter tapered off, Holden returned his gaze upwards.
Every so often, the stars peaked between the clouds, as clear and bright as Holden had ever seen them, twinkling like shards of glass against an indigo backdrop. Bill took another inhale of his cigarette before offering his hand to Holden to help him up. Holden shook his head, eyes still locked with what was above him.
“You should see this,” he said, motioning towards the sky with the incline of his chin.
Bill chuckled. “If you think you’re going to get me to sit in the snowbank with you, you’re kidding yourself.”
“Come on,” Holden goaded as he patted the space beside him. “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
Bill rolled his eyes. He flicked his cigarette butt onto the ground before carefully lowering himself beside Holden, grimacing as he came in contact with the slush and snow. Their shoulders bumped. Bill was close enough for Holden to notice his warmth through cotton and wool, close enough to trace the plumes of his breath. They settled into their side-by-side like it was the space they were always meant to fit into.
“I feel like a teenager,” Bill joked, brushing off his hands with mock disgust. Snowflakes nestled in his hair, white disappearing into grey. It made Holden smile.
“Shut up,” he hushed. “Just look.”
Bill did as he was told. He looked at the stars and Holden looked at him. He seemed ten years younger with his eyes wide and searching, less tired than he appeared to be under the harsh fluorescents of the diner. A hint of a grin softened his usually harsh features, highlighted by the fact that his lips were unencumbered by their usual cigarette. Holden could feel the wet and the cold seeping in through his coat the longer they sat, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Know any constellations?” Bill asked.
“The Big Dipper, the Little Dipper,” Holden listed off. “Not enough to piece any of the stars together when the clouds are covering them like this.”
Bill nodded. After a little while, his gaze returned to earth, then gravitated towards Holden. He nudged him playfully in the shoulder. “Hey, Merry Christmas.”
“A little premature,” Holden teased, his heart too full to do anything but. “Merry Christmas to you too, Bill.”
As their sentiments settled into all the cracks and crevices, Bill shifted like he might stand, but Holden caught him by the sleeve of his jacket. He pinched it between his fingers until his grip slackened into something more gentle: a touch without touching.
“Stay?” Holden said, asking one thing but meaning something different, something he wasn’t even sure of himself.
Somehow, Bill seemed to understand. “Alright, I can stay.”
And so he did.