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It’s the first Christmas Eve after Claudia dies, and Mr. Stilinski can’t bring himself to move from the warm clutches of his easy chair and a bottle of Jack. It’s only 4:00 in the afternoon, but Stiles has already gone upstairs to his room. That was maybe an hour ago. Mr. Stilinski can’t really tell through the whiskey haze. A single strand of multicolored lights blink on the otherwise bare Christmas tree in the corner. This makes him sad, so he pours another glass.
He’s about halfway through it when the phone rings. The sound irritates him, because the last thing he wants to do is get into a conversation with yet another concerned family member. “I’m so sorry,” they said. “How are you and your boy holding up?” they asked. “We’ll get you anything you need, just let us know,” they lied. The only thing Mr. Stilinski needed was for people to stop reminding him that all his plans for the future were buried six feet under alongside his wife.
The phone continues to ring, and he begins to wonder how long they’ll let it go before they just hang up. He stares blearily at the receiver on the table beside him. Eventually, the ringing stops. He takes a swig from his glass.
There’s the click of a door opening and the hurried thump of footsteps pounding down the stairs. Stiles’s footsteps become a little more careful, a little quieter, as he enters the living room where his dad is. Mr. Stilinski barely aknowledges the kid standing in front of him.
“It’s for you,” Stiles says.
“What?” he asks.
“The phone. I answered it. It’s for you.”
His reaction must be a severe one, because Stiles twitches like a scared bird. Stiles twitches a lot anyway, but those twitches are usually more rabbit-like. This twitch is entirely different. Mr. Stilinski wants to comfort the boy, but he can’t think of what to say. He picks up the phone instead.
“Hello?”
“Oh, good. You’re home.” Melissa McCall’s voice floats over the phone line. “Stay right there. I’m coming over with Scott in a few minutes.”
“You’re what?”
“We’re coming over. Be there soon.” She hangs up before Mr. Stilinski can even protest. It takes him a few seconds to realize he’s listening to a dial tone before he puts the phone down. He sighs and glances at Stiles, who’s just standing there picking at the hem of his shirt, watching him.
“We’ve got company,” Mr. Stilinski announces.
***
The fact that he doesn’t tell Stiles it’s Scott who’s coming over is a testament to his Christmas spirit. The way his son’s face lights up when Scott comes bursting through the front door makes Mr. Stilinski’s chest ache a little. The boys meet in a tangle of limbs–and a missing shoe, somehow–and roughhouse their way up to Stiles’s room.
Melissa bustles in a few minutes later with two big shopping bags. “Christmas dinner,” she explains on her way to the kitchen. No greeting. No small talk. He closes the door and wonders what the hell is going on.
There’s a lot of thumping going on upstairs until one really loud thud leads to silence. No one’s crying, and no one’s screaming bloody murder, so Mr. Stilinski doesn’t bother to investigate. He heads to the kitchen, where Melissa is unloading the bags and spreading things out on the counters and table.
“Where’s your can opener?” she asks as soon as he walks in. He opens a drawer and holds up a hand cranked can opener.
“The electric one broke,” he says by way of apology. She takes it from him and grabs a can of cranberry sauce.
“Do you mind preheating the oven to 350? I want to get the chicken in there sooner rather than later. It’s been thawing all day, and I really don’t want to risk salmonella.”
“Sure.” Mr. Stilinski turns on the oven. After that, they move around together in the kitchen without saying much else. The effects of the whiskey slow his movements, but they’re still precise enough to get the job done. It’s not until he notices Melissa’s hand shaking on the knife she’s using to slice carrots that he reaches out to still her trembling fingers. She barks out a mirthless laugh.
“Whoops,” she says and takes a deep breath. “I need to slow down.”
“No, you need to explain,” he says. “Why are you and Scott here instead of at home?”
“Because Scott’s father is a piece of shit who can’t find a way to visit his only son on Christmas Eve.” She finishes slicing the carrots like it’s no big deal.
“Jeez. I’m sorry, Melissa.”
She shakes her head and dumps the carrots into a pot of boiling water. “Don’t be. I’m not. He’d promised Scott he’d be home for Christmas, and Scott planned his entire week around his dad being home. But ‘something came up at the Bureau last minute I’m so sorry tell the kiddo I love him.’ I knew it was a lie, because he was drunk off his ass as he said it. He didn’t even have the decency to tell Scott himself, so I had to. Scott didn’t stop crying until I stuffed him in the car and drove over here. Do you have salad bowls? Where are your salad bowls?”
The abrupt change in subject leaves Mr. Stilinski’s head swimming for a second. He finally catches up and retrieves a salad bowl from the cupboard. As he hands it to her, he notices how tired Melissa looks. Her flurry of activity in the kitchen belies her exhaustion.
“Anything else?” he asks.
She thinks for a moment. “No more whiskey tonight,” she says softly.
He nods. “All right.”
***
About an hour later, they’re all seated around the kitchen table with empty plates and full bellies.
“Dad, why can’t you cook like this?” Stiles asks as he tries to jam another dinner roll into his mouth. “That was the best chicken I’ve had since Mom-” he stops, roll half hanging out of his mouth. He puts it back on his plate like he’s ashamed for liking the meal.
“It’s all right, son,” Mr. Stilinski says with a sad smile. He’d been thinking the same thing. “Thank you, Melissa. If it weren’t for you, Stiles would have been eating Kid Cuisine tonight.”
“Any time,” she smiles.
“He could always eat the cookies we were gonna leave out for Santa,” Scott pipes in from his seat right next to Stiles. “I know cookies aren’t dinner, but if they’re good enough for Santa, they’re good enough for Stiles.”
“Santa isn’t real, Scotty,” Stiles says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Mr. Stilinski is still baffled by how Stiles figured out Santa wasn’t real a few years ago. The kid was only 5 at the time.
Santa’s nonexistence is apparently news to Scott. His eyes grow round and glittery. His bottom lip wobbles. His breathing gets dangerously shallow.
“Mom?! Is that true?!”
“Scott, calm down before you give yourself an asthma attack. Did you bring your inhaler?”
He nods, still just shy of panic. Stiles, looking a little panicky himself, reaches over and grabs Scott’s hand. “Dude, Santa is totally real. I was just joking. Did you see how we don’t have anything under the Christmas tree? It’s because he hasn’t brought the presents yet. See? That proves Santa’s real.”
Scott looks skeptical, but at least he isn’t on the verge of a breakdown anymore.
Mr. Stilinski, however, feels a stab of guilt for neglecting to buy his kid a Christmas present this year, and his first instinct is to head to his liquor cabinet. But he made a promise to Melissa, and he intends to keep it. For tonight, at least. He owes them all that much.
“You know what, Scott? Stiles and I didn’t finish decorating the Christmas tree. Why don’t you boys finish it up? The box of decorations is in the closet by the stairs. Your mom and I’ll do the dishes.”
Scott and Stiles tear out of the kitchen, but not before Scott remembers to ask his mom if they can be excused.
***
“You smiled,” Melissa teases as she loads the dishwasher. Mr. Stilinski scrapes the last plate and hands it to her.
“What? When?”
“At dinner. And don’t give me that baffled look; you were clearly enjoying yourself.”
Mr. Stilinski smiles depite himself and starts the dishwasher.
By the time they finish with everything, Melissa makes note of how quiet the boys are in the living room. That could mean only two things: naps or trouble. They peek into the living room and then both struggle not to laugh at the sight before them.
The boys are listening to Christmas carols on one of the TV music channels. There’s a weird mish mash of ornaments hanging on the tree, a mish mash that looks okay the longer you stare at it. One of them has wrapped Stiles in an entire string of Christmas lights and plugged him in, and Stiles is doing a stilted, hoppy jig to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” as the lights blink on and off around him. Scott has a sparkly blue garland and is dancing horribly along. Neither boy notices they’re being watched. Or maybe they just don’t care.
“They’re so focused on dancing that they’re not even talking to each other. This is incredible,” Melissa whispers.
“We should probably stop them before Stiles gets electrocuted,” Mr. Stilinski whispers back. “Wow, Scott is a terrible dancer.”
Melissa swats his shoulder in faux outrage. “Hey, can you stop picking on my kid long enough to get the presents out of my car?”
“You brought presents?” he asks in disbelief.
“Just Scott's, a couple of things for Stiles, and one for you,” she says nonchalantly.
Without really meaning to, Mr. Stilinski leans over and kisses Melissa squarely on the cheek. “Thank you. For everything. You single-handedly saved Christmas,” he says.
She squeezes his shoulder indulgently. “I know.”
***
Stiles waits up with Scott to catch a futile glimpse of Santa, both of them huddled underneath a blanket and watching “The Nightmare Before Christmas.” By the time midnight rolls around, neither boy can keep his eyes open, and Melissa shuffles them off to bed. Mr. Stilinski uses their departure to retrieve the presents from their hiding spot, and he places them underneath the tree.
“We should probably put some foam padding at the base of the stairs for when the boys come storming down them in the morning,” Melissa says, yawning.
Mr. Stilinski laughs. Melissa’s joke isn’t THAT funny, but for the first time in a long time, he feels like laughing. So he does.
When Melissa bids him goodnight and retires to the guest room, and when he finally slides beneath the thick comforter on his own bed, Mr. Stilinski makes a silent vow to try harder. Even now, he still longs for the heat of whiskey in his veins, and he reaches out into the cold space where Claudia once slept beside him.
“Our boy deserves so much more than what I’ve been giving him, lately,” he whispers into the darkness. “And I’m sorry if I disappointed you. It’s just so hard not having you here. Melissa is trying her best, but she’s going through a rough time, too.” He lapses into silence as though he’s expecting his wife to answer. The only response he gets is more silence.
“The holidays are hell without you, Claudia, but I’m still here, and I promise you I can do this. I have to. Merry Christmas, honey. I love you,” he finishes, drifting off to sleep, not realizing he’s actually looking forward to waking up.