Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's traditional, right? Your parents pay for your education, and in exchange you agree to study for some profession that makes them happy. (In my case it was as law, but it doesn't have to be. For this ex of mine, it was Art History. The dad fancied himself some kind of new age hippie or something.) The short of it is that your parents only agree to pay for your education if you do what they want you to, so you do. You might think of rebelling, but you decide it's probably not worth it.

Then you work that profession for however long you have to in order to accrue a big pile of cash. (That ex? Still working on this step.)

It's all traditional.

You know what's not traditional?

Ghosts. Or voodoo, or whatever the fuck that doll thing is. (My law degree didn't include supernatural classifications.)

(Sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself.)

So you have your big pile of cash, a large chunk of time still left in your life, and no real friends. And you never really wanted to be a lawyer in the first place. So you retire. Preferably to a small town in the country, where you can be someone important without actually having had to do anything important.

You're shopping around for houses, and there's this really nice one your real estate agent sends you an e-mail about. Maybe it's a fixer-upper, or just a little isolated from town.

You buy it, and either way, it costs you less than you expected it to. You might even end up spending less on your monthly mortgage payment than you did on the rent for your apartment on the Upper East Side.

You spend way too much time trying to decide whether or not you should donate some of the extra money to charity, before you decide it would be way more fun just to have some of it as a pile of cash to look at occasionally. You could always donate it to charity later, after all.

It's not that the flight is awful, but afterwards you still have a four hour drive. And maybe you wonder if you're doing the right thing, if you'll really be happy this far away from civilization. (I saw this as my chance to finally be the person I'd wanted to be since I was five. I wanted to live somewhere I could see the stars at night and be woken up by the birds in the morning, instead of the garbage trucks.)

You drive through town late at night, and everything's shut down. Even the gas station. Hey, at least there is a gas station, right?

Your house isn't hard to find, though the woods make everything feel a lot more isolated. You wonder about walking paths and start to mentally shunt that aside to the weekend. Then you remember that every day is basically the weekend, now. So maybe you'll investigate tomorrow.

But now it's late, you're tired, and you hope that when the real estate agent said the house was furnished that she meant comfortably furnished, because all you want to do is collapse into bed.

You park your new car in the garage and start to empty it out completely before you realize that anyone who can break into your locked garage can also break into your house. So you just grab the suitcase you need and head inside. You're walking through the ground floor of the house to make sure everything's in order when you hear a noise upstairs.

It's probably a window someone left open, or something. It doesn't bother you too much, you're used to hearing neighbors, so your new house feels eerily quiet. Noise is normal.

You remember that the real estate said something about the fact that most of the light bulbs need replacing, so you take the flashlight you bought at the airport out of your backpack as you head upstairs.

You're not a fan of horror movies. (I mean, if you are, I guess that's okay. But I'm not sure I'd know how to relate to you now. And I might not be willing to invite you over for dinner anymore after this revelation.) You don't have a particularly overactive imagination.

You're not afraid at first because it doesn't occur to you that you should be. You're not picturing axe-murderers or killer octopodes.

When the noise continues as you get closer, though, images of armies of rabid squirrels flash through your mind. Or rabbits. Or whatever other animals they have in the woods. Herrings! No, wait, not those, those are a kind of fish. You think.

You pause outside the door before opening. The lights, as you worried, don't work. Your flashlight catches a glimpse of movement and you try to remember if you're supposed to get your rabies shot before or after you're bitten.

The room had clearly been used for storage, and just as clearly hadn't been emptied when the last occupants had left.

It reminds you of when your grandmother died and you and your dad went up for the weekend to sort out her house. (It turned out not to be quite the bonding experience my mom had hoped it would be, since it consisted less of my dad telling me stories about the woman who raised him and more him getting really drunk on her leftover whiskey, before the neighbors called the cops on him.)

You wonder if it's worth the bother of sorting through the room to see if anything is valuable, before the continuing movement draws your eyes away from a tattered wedding dress.

You scream, but that doesn't make the doll vanish. And when it stands still for a couple of seconds you can tell that it is indeed a doll, with a miniature knitted dress and matching shawl.

You try screaming again, but the doll is still there, and it's still looking at you with its one good eye. The other, ruined, one stares at you from a mess of needlework attempts to replace the missing marble that only serve to highlight the abnormality of the eye.

Since the screaming isn't working, possibly because you're not doing it loud enough, you decide to run.

You're in the kitchen when you realize you just ran away from a doll that did nothing worse than look at you, but it takes you half an hour and more than a few shots of vodka before your heart rate drops back down to something your cardiologist would find acceptable.

When your eyes are drooping and you're on your way out of the kitchen, you trip over something, but you don't look down to see what it is.

You've never had a problem sleeping before, and you don't have a problem now.

In the morning the sun is shining, you can hear actual birds, and you feel a lot better. You think about calling up your ex to talk about it. (Yes, for me it would be the art history one. It's not really my fault that only one of my exes still talks to me. I swear. Not my fault.) But last time you freaked out about something like this, it turned out it was just a dream.

(Okay, in retrospect, yes, it was irrational for me to keep a grudge against my little sister for two years because of something she didn't actually do. But I didn't know it was irrational. I didn't know she hadn't really gotten married in Hawaii and failed to invite me to the wedding. Because if she had, she would have to pretend not to be married, wouldn't she?)

(And, also in retrospect, even if she had gotten married behind my back, it would probably not have been a good idea for me to laugh at her when she said her boyfriend of four years had dumped her. Because being married doesn't grant you immunity against break ups. Or so I'm told. As it was, it became a matter of her keeping a grudge against me for, well, how about I let you know when she forgives me?)

You do end up calling your ex, but it's not to talk about the doll nightmare. It's actually to ask for advice on antiques, because you think your house is still lacking that particular spark which will make it feel like you're in the country. Your ex doesn't have much by the way of useful advice for you, because you can't really say anything specific about what kind of style you want. (I really just wanted to ask for suggestions on how to get the best deals. No luck.)

You aren't impressed by the town, but you aren't appalled by it either, which you account to your openness as an individual rather than any particular merits of town.

There is an antique store, and while it's a sketchy looking place you decide you probably won't suffer any harm if you go in.

You're trying to decide whether or not the stool you're looking at will fall apart if you look at it wrong, let alone try to sit on it, when you first see the shopkeeper. "Nice weather," you say to him by way of dismissal, but he doesn't seem to take the hint.

"About normal for this time of year," he says.

"I just moved here," you say. "I bought a house outside town."

"You're the new resident of the Korin place. You're mostly furnished."

You're a little disturbed by the way he says it, like there's no way you could object to him. Not that he's wrong. You put it down to the fact that you're in a small town, and you put your unease down to the fact that one of his eyes isn't tracking you. You offer up a vague, impersonal smile, and remind yourself that you shouldn't judge him for the way his right hand is bent and looks dried up. "Yes," you say, trying again to get rid of him so you can browse in peace. At this point you're not interested in the merchandise anymore, you've already decided that there isn't anything you want in his store, but it's become a matter of pride for you to get him to leave you alone.

"I do think this would be a lovely addition," he says, and you jump, because you thought he had left, but he's standing right behind you, holding a wooden chest.

He's struggling with it a little, so you take the chest and set it on the stool you were looking at. The stool holds.

You probably try to lift the lid, but the chest is locked. The man grins as he hands you the key.

You aren't sure if you're looking for a trap or trying to check if the key is actually silver, but a chill runs down your spine when you see what's written on it. You didn't think anyone besides your parents knew your middle name, but there it sits on the key, between your first name and your last one.

Maybe you think about screaming.

Maybe you think about running away.

(I just sat there, as frozen as I was when I was six and my mom told me my goldfish was dead, and had been dead for almost a week, and would I just hurry up and clean the damn tank already.)

You don't watch horror movies, but you've been trained to recognize patterns. You've got a pretty good idea what's in the chest.

You're right.

You glance from the doll's broken eye to the man's wandering one. (I wonder if it's possible for there to be two dolls. Honestly, though, I'd rather think that there's one doll that can teleport than two dolls.)

Now you scream.

It doesn't help: when you run out of air the doll is still there and the man is on the verge of laughter. So you do what any New York lawyer would do when faced with someone you just freaked out on. "What do I owe you?" you ask.

"Counting tax, $19.50," he says.

You pay him, pocketing the two quarters after checking to make sure they're of states you already have (New Jersey and Maryland).

You take the chest and the doll home. The doll tries to make conversation with you, but you ignore it. You don't really feel like discussing what chances the Yankees have for success next season, why your last date went so badly, or how you should apologize to your sister. If you had ever thought about it, you would have figured that a creepy paranormal doll wouldn't really care one way or the other about baseball, or if she did she would support the Red Sox.

You threaten to find a three-year-old to give the doll to and the doll just giggles. You try interacting with the doll like it's a puppy that still needs to be house-trained, with firm instructions and lots of yelling, but the doll catches on and threatens to pee on your new sofa.

You try to just ignore the doll and count your big bag of money, but the doll can count faster than you, and it's really annoying.

You've never made a habit of being stubborn, and as much as you'd like to continue that tradition, you don't really seem to have a choice. You think about moving out of the house and into a hotel, but when you go looking it turns out the town doesn't even have a hotel, and it's too late at night for you to find some other town.

So you head back to your house, or the Korin place, as everyone you meet insists you call it. You tried asking the doll who the Korins were, but she just used the opportunity to turn a corn soup recipe into an allegory about your love life.

Your mother never gives you this much trouble, partly because she doesn't know anything about your love life.

The doll doesn't follow you to the grocery story, which is a disappointment because that's the only place you might welcome her brand of excitement. Instead, she's sitting on the stairs when you return home, and she follows you into the kitchen. You start to make yourself a cucumber sandwich, and she tells you to make one for her too. She does not even say please.

You tell her that pickles are just like cucumbers and take one of the frozen, smashed ones you bought out the freezer. (I bought them on a whim from the 'local delicacy' section of the gas station store.) You don't have anything else to do with them, and you'd feel bad about just tossing them, even though they taste just as awful as you thought a frozen mashed pickle would.

She munches happily on the frozen pickle, and you try not to think about the fact that she's made out of cotton and that the food has nowhere to go. You think you need quantum theory to explain where the food goes. (The only thing I know about quantum theory is that it sounds awesome, and I've been told it's an explanation for most things in the universe I don't understand.)

The cucumber sandwich loses its taste as you watch the doll eat, so you decide to turn in for the night. The doll follows you upstairs to your room.

While you're brushing your teeth you can see the doll in the mirror. She tells you to make sure you floss after you're done brushing. You promise the doll that you'll buy some floss next time you're in town. The doll mutters at you, but leaves you alone so you can change for bed.

It's difficult to sleep when the doll is sitting on your pillow, telling you that if you sleep with your back like that you'll have horrible back trouble tomorrow. You try smothering the doll with the pillow, but apparently the doll doesn't need oxygen.

You toss and turn for an hour before giving up on sleep and heading downstairs to make yourself a cup of green tea.

Your older brother had this habit where whenever he thought you were really stressed out or upset with the world, he would offer you a cup of tea. And then he'd put so much sugar in the cup that you could hardly drink it. It's become a kind of comfort drink, one step below vodka (which I'm out of).

Unfortunately you don't have any sugar in the house, but you do have honey, so you add that to your tea instead.

You decide that three spoon-fulls of honey is equivalent to your usual amount of sugar. (I couldn't find any teaspoons, so I just used a tablespoon instead.)

While you're stirring in your second spoon-full of honey, the doll leaps over and grabs the spoon from your hand. "That's going to be too sweet, don't you think?" she says.

"That's not up for you to decide," you reply.

"Well, you're clearly not capable of making good decisions on your own." She drags your cup of hot tea over to the sink and pushes it in, cracking the mug in the process.

At this point you're feeling the sleep deprivation, the constant tension, and the fact that the doll just broke your only mug.

You scream, not in terror this time, but in frustration. Apparently it's no more a matter of motivation than it is a matter of volume; the doll just looks at you. And smiles.

You pick the doll up and lock her in the wooden box which has been sitting on the couch in the living room since you brought it home.

Apparently there's something about being a talking doll that means the box doesn't successfully muffle her voice. "That was a mistake," she says, and the clarity of her words sends a shiver down your spine. "And it probably wasn't very good for your blood pressure either." And just like that, your fear turns back into aggravation.

"My blood pressure is between me and my doctor," you say, setting the box in the fireplace.

"Your doctor only listens to you because you pay him," she says. "What will happen if you lost your money? Who will love you then?"

You laugh at the doll, and place your bag of money into the fireplace next to her. You turn the gas on, light a match, turn the gas off, and wait for it all to burn. The doll goes strangely quiet, and you congratulate yourself.

As the fire crackles and grows you start to smell smoke, too much smoke, you dash over to make sure the chimney chute is open. But when you look, there doesn't even seem to be a chimney anymore. You're panicking now, because your throat is starting to close up and your eyes are burning. You drop to the floor to try to find where the air will be clearer and crawl in the direction of the door. You hit solid wood.

You wake up in the hospital, with monitoring machines beeping at you, and an oxygen tube in your nose. You try to open your eyes, only to discover you can't. You start to panic, before you realize that you've got some kind of bandage holding them shut. You decide to keep panicking anyway.

Then there's a calming hand on your shoulder, and the murmurs of either a nurse or a doctor which slowly coalesce into coherence.

"What happened?" you ask, not sure if you're still in New York or not. Your voice comes out with a rasp, and the hospital employee helps you take a sip of water.

"What do you remember?" he says.

You aren't sure what to say, seeing as you don't fancy ending up in a mental hospital. "There was a fire. I remember everything up that point."

The nurse or doctor shifts slightly, and you're suddenly aware that there's an IV tube in your arm, and he's adjusting it. "Yeah, the fire," he says.

"How bad is it?"

"That's really something the doctor should talk to you about," the nurse says.

"Shit," you respond.

"It's not as bad as all that," he says quickly.

"Tell me."

There's a pause, like he's hoping the doctor will step in to save him from this conversation. "You will have minor permanent damage."

"Where?" you interrupt, because you're not willing to let him dance around the issue.

"You have third degree burns covering most of your lower left leg."

You nod, even though it makes your head flare in pain, because you're afraid otherwise he'll stop to define what a third degree burn is, and you just want him to move onto the damage to your eyes.

"Third degree burn on your right leg. Second degree burns on your upper arms. Most of the rest of your burns are first degree."

"Will I be able to see again?"

You've startled him. "Of course. The bandages are for minor damage, and to keep you from irritating them. You actually sustained most of your damage on your limbs because you curled in pretty much the best way you could have. Unfortunately, in addition to the burns you did have serious smoke inhalation, which is what the oxygen tube is for."

"How long have I been out?" you ask.

"Thirty-six hours. Was there anyone you wanted us to contact?"

"My sister." You start to say that her phone number will be on your cellphone, before you realize that there's no way your cellphone didn't go up in the fire. "Actually, wait, I'll talk to her later."

"Okay," the nurse says. "If that's all, you really should get more rest."

You start to object that you've already slept so long, but he must have upped the morphine intake, or whatever it is nurses do, because you feel yourself losing consciousness.

The bandages are still covering your eyes the next time you break the barrier surrounding awareness, and you lie still for a couple of moments, trying to figure out if there's a doctor or nurse in the room.

You're impatient though, and you can't hear anything conclusive, so eventually you just call out. Your voice sounds raspier than it did before.

"Here, drink this," says the same nurse as before, and a straw prods at your mouth.

"I want you to make sure you keep your eyes closed now," another, female, voice says.

You squeeze your eyes shut and feel the pressure removed.

"Don't open your eyes yet, but do relax a little," the nurse says.

You lie there, waiting.

"Okay, you can open your eyes now," the woman says.

You open them slowly, and even then the light rushes in too fast. The nurse and the woman - a doctor - are standing on the left side of your bed, and you blink blearily at them. You think you see the doll perching on the shoulder of the doctor, but you dismiss her presence easily enough.

"Any difficulties seeing?" the doctor asks.

"No more so than usual," you say. "I have glasses."

You think the doctor smiles at you; you know she nods.

"Do you have the contact information for your doctor?" the nurse asks.

"In New York, yes." You give the phone number and e-mail address, then wait for a question about insurance that doesn't come.

"And you wanted to get in contact with your sister?" the nurse says instead, when he's done writing.

"Maybe later. I still feel too exhausted for that conversation, and she wouldn't appreciate getting a call from the hospital."

They tell you that your whole house burned down, and you're so lucky to still be alive. You aren't sure whether you feel lucky or not.

Your constant exhaustion pretty much keeps you from thinking of the doll for quite some time. When you do think of her you're not willing to dismiss your experience as hallucination.

"What kind of local stories do they tell about Jonesville?" you ask the nurse the next time he's in the room and the doctor is not.

"I don't know what you mean," he says, the doll standing in the window behind. She crosses her arms at you while he continues: "I mean, a kid who graduated from the local high school six or seven ago went on to be a marine biologist and write a book."

"Not that kind of story. More like ghost stories, I guess."

He sniffs at you. "We may not be New York, but we're not quaint."

"Of course not," you assure him, and decide that you've always been willing to embarrass yourself if it means you gain more information as a result. "It's just, the Korin place felt haunted. And I wondered if it had any history."

"Not. No," the nurse says.

(I'm a lawyer; I can tell that there's something he's not saying.) "So I'm just an idiot then," you say, all false charm. "Gotcha."

You're off most of the drugs you've been on for the last week, so you decide to call your sister.

The phone picks up after two rings. "Leanne?"

"What are you doing in Maine?" she demands, and it's definitely her voice.

"I bought a house here," you say.

"Since when?"

"Ten days ago."

There's a long pause, then: "Why are you calling me from a hospital?"

"You googled the number?"

"Of course I fucking googled the number," Leanne says.

"Mom should never have given you those spy novels as a kid," you reply.

"Why a hospital?" she repeats.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," you say. The doctor has brought you glasses that match your prescription, but you're not wearing them at the moment. Even so, you see the doll all the way across the room, hovering just outside the window. She winks her good eye at you.

"Are you dying?" Leanne demands. "Do you have cancer? Shit, you aren't expecting me to tell mom and dad, are you?"

"My house burned down. I was inside it at the time."

"You're all right now, though."

"Yeah."

"Oh. Good. Apology accepted."

You smile at the doll.

They took you off the IV a couple of days ago, but you're starting to wish they hadn't bothered. Hospital food is notoriously awful for a reason. "Do you think you could bring me real food?" you ask the nurse. (I'd tried asking the doctor, but she'd raised her eyebrows and asked me if I had a death wish.) "Like a cheeseburger and some fries? There's got to be a McDonald's somewhere in the county."

The doll looks like she's going to break the silent treatment she's been giving you to criticize, but she's cut off by the nurse's laugh. "I don't know whether to be appalled or to congratulate you for breaking up the tedium of the day."

You grin back at him, then grin a little wider when you notice that the doll has left. "You could just reward me with a cheeseburger."

"Not today, even if my conscience could afford to take on that burden."

"Why not today? McDonald's closed?"

"Yes," he says, then softer: "It's Christmas Day."

"Oh," you say, and that explains why the hospital seems quieter than it usually is, and why he seems to be lingering in your room. He probably feels sorry for you, with no one to visit. "So why are you here then?"

He shrugs. "I've got nowhere better to be," he says, and you feel a little sorry for him, until he flashes a grin at you, and asks you about the craziest case you ever had to argue. He doesn't even seem to have the average American's television-induced impression of a courtroom, which is probably a relief, since it means it's much easier to make him laugh.

You get crutches after being in the hospital for two weeks. They're incredibly frustrating, because you feel that you should be able to move around now, but you just can't.

It's two days after Christmas.

The nurse drops by just after you give up on the crutches for the day. The doctor left after acting like she'd like to be comforting, but just can't be bothered. You understand, she has a busy schedule to keep.

He's not wearing scrubs, and he has a plastic bag in his hand. "You're very lucky Caroline didn't catch me."

"Caroline?"

"Dr. Rolfe."

"Ah," you say, then wait impatiently until he brings the bag over and you've verified the quality of the contents by eating some of them. "These fries are wonderful. Thank you so much." (And I don't do socially awkward moments, but I suddenly realize I don't even know the nurse's name.)

"Aaron," he says.

You grin at him. "Want any fries, Aaron?" you ask.

"Do I ever."

The next time you see Aaron he's on duty again, wearing scrubs, and Dr. Rolfe is standing right behind him. You expect him to make an effort to be professional, but instead he's as easy and relaxed as he was the last two times you saw him. "How's your leg feel?" he asks.

You grimace at him, because you're not five. "Like hell. Have you talked to my health insurance company?" You really should have asked that question two weeks ago, or at least as soon as you regained consciousness in a meaningful fashion. Even if your insurance doesn't end up covering you, though, you have enough money in the bank to cover a short hospital stay. If you hadn't just bought a house, then burned it down, along with a substantial pile of cash, you would have enough to cover an extended hospital stay. But you know what they say about hindsight being 20/20. Of course they probably also wouldn't advocate burning down your own house under any circumstances, but you already feel quite bad about having done that.

"Yeah, they've got everything covered." Aaron looks surprised that you didn't already know that, which is fair, he knows you were a lawyer. But while that meant you made damn sure your health insurance policy covered everything, it also meant you want to make sure everything's still alright. "Oh, also, the police are going to want to talk to you to get your statement whenever you're ready to give it to them. They aren't in any particular hurry, though."

"I'll clear a spot for them on my schedule," you joke, and Dr. Rolfe starts fiddling with the bandages on your leg.

"So about ghost stories and haunting," you try to say, but Aaron just looks at you.

"I don't know what you mean by haunting, or where you got that impression."

"I got the impression from the doll that followed me around everywhere, and the fact that my house burned down around me, despite the only fire being in the fireplace. I got the impression from the way the house wasn't quiet at night. I got the impression from the creepy old man in town, and the fact that my name was carved into a seventy-five-year-old key in the antique store of a town in a state I've never even been to before."

"See, for me," Aaron says, and he's not quite smiling at you, but he's definitely not looking at you like you're crazy or you're making him angry, "The most suspicious part of the whole story is why you bought a house in the area in the first place. You'll need to have a decent explanation for that which doesn't involve how quaint we all are before you talk to the police."

"But my explanation can involve supernatural beings."

Aaron nods, and his eyes soften. "As long as they're properly presented. Honestly the only thing the police are looking to get out of your statement is whether or not you deliberately set your house on fire. As long as you're not suspicious, and you don't insult them, they don't care if you're mentally stable or not."

"When will I be released?"

Dr. Rolfe frowns at you. "If you'll be staying with someone, I would feel comfortable releasing you now, as long as you came back in for physical therapy every day. If you're going to be on your own, it's going to be a couple of weeks."

"The thing is, doctor, I don't know anyone in the area."

She shrugs. "I can't release you anytime soon, then. Sorry." She takes a moment trying to look thoughtful, but it comes off as mischievous. "You could always try Aaron; he's got an extra bedroom in his house."

"Isn't that going a little above and beyond the call of duty?"

She smiles. "I'm pretty sure he considers you a friend by now. At the least."

You consider that. You pretty much only have the one friend, and that's at primarily because you'd enjoyed your conversations enough while you were dating that you continue to make an effort to keep in touch once you weren't.

You probably enjoy your conversations with the nurse about as much as those with your ex, and if he isn't doing them out of some sense of pity or duty, you probably are friends.

(I try not to give away the game as soon as Aaron enters the room to give me my lunch, but I can tell he suspects something's up.) "Do you know what's even worse than hospital food?" you ask him.

"New York lawyers?"

"Very funny. The best part about being a lawyer is that you can't offend me, I've probably heard all the jokes before."

"The same probably goes for male nurses." Aaron shrugs, not willing to be beat. "What did you want?"

"Not to have to sleep on a hospital bed anymore." You also kind of hope that if you're not in the hospital the doll won't follow you anymore, even if you admit that precedent doesn't favor that happening.

"Caroline's been talking to you, hasn't she?" He looks amused, rather than annoyed.

"If you're willing to, it's certainly a logical arrangement."

"Hey, if you want to spend a couple of weeks at my place, you're welcome to. I should warn you, though: I don't have a television."

You roll your eyes and grin at him. "Oh, the horror."

Moving in with Aaron is easy, because it's not like you have any stuff to move. (Though we do stop at a store on the way home to get me some clothing.) Disappointingly, it appears that he's generally morally opposed to cheeseburgers, and was making an exception for you that one time.

But you like pasta and soup well enough, particularly when you're not the one responsible for cooking them.

Moving in with Aaron is also easy because you get along with him really well. He seems to know when you need space to settle into a new location, and when you really need someone to tell you corny knock-knock jokes.

"I'm sure you can leave me alone for the night," you say early Thursday afternoon.

"Hmm?" Aaron asks.

"So you don't need to cancel your New Year's Eve plans for me."

"Oh, I don't have any New Year's Eve plans."

You don't let Aaron see that you feel sorry for him, because it's not like you left any real friends in New York. "And you don't have a television, so you can't even appropriately crash other people's plans, or see fireworks. Why have you been living your life so wrong?" you ask.

He laughs.

"It's a good thing you've got me." You grin at him.

"Oh yeah? So tell me, what do New Yorkers without television do on New Year's that we can do here?"

"Get drunk?"

Aaron frowns at you. "It'll mess with your medication, and I'm technically on call."

You frown at him in return and try to think.

You end up huddled around his laptop watching YouTube clips of the ball dropping from last year. "This is really lame," you say to let him know that you are not even remotely impressed.

He shrugs. "It could be worse. I could be asleep right now. Or maybe that would be better."

You raise your eyebrows. "It's ten thirty. That would be worse."

"Or we could have cookies and hot chocolate. And a pillow fort."

"That wouldn't be lame at all," you say. "That would be awesome."

Aaron laughs at you. "I don't think I can believe you were ever a lawyer. You're not nearly cynical enough."

You mock glare at him. "There's cynical, and then there's turning down pillow forts."

"Well, I don't think I actually have any cookies. But I do have the best powdered hot chocolate in the whole of the universe."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely."

"This is really good hot chocolate," you say.

"I know, right? I have an aunt in North Dakota who buys it from this local restaurant and sends it to me."

"I think I'm just going to have to steal your aunt now. It's either that or move in permanently with you."

Aaron laughs, but turns his head away in attempt to hide his blush.

"You know what traditionally goes with hot chocolate?" you say. "Ghost stories."

Aaron rolls his eyes. "There really isn't that much to tell."

"But there is something?"

"Yes."

Aaron's in the middle of telling you about the guy who owned your house before you, and how he might have been involved in an drug syndicate, and how the man's currently serving time for being caught smuggling geese (geese!) across the Canadian-American border, when you get this funny feeling.

It's an interesting story, and it might actually explain partially about the doll if you could follow it at all, but you just realized that it turned midnight fifteen minutes ago, and maybe you don't care as much as you thought you did.

"Happy New Year," you say, leaning forward to take Aaron's empty mug out of his hand to set it on the table.

"Is it?" he asks. "Already?"

You don't answer, just lean forward to kiss him.

(And if I close my eyes so I don't have to see the doll gives me a thumbs up, does it even matter that I know she's there?)