More Than Forever, page 2
“Do you ever get bored of checking?”
“No.” Nick looks down at the list. He doesn’t. Or, more accurately, he’s never thought about it. It’s just something he does because it’s what he’s meant to do. He doesn’t want to think too closely about that, so he puts down his pen and picks up his tea. Miss is grinning at him.
“So. How you doing?” Miss asks after a moment, slurping on her tea annoyingly.
Nick frowns. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Nick shuffles in his chair. He is fine. Maybe not as focused as he has been in past years. But he’s been doing this for a long time, so having a slightly off year means nothing. It’s not even an off year! It’s still January. He has the whole year to be checking the list, planning the gifts, organising the elves. He has a lot of work to do, and he will do it because he is Santa Claus. Having a slightly off fortnight isn’t going to mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything.
“You’re scowling at your tea,” Miss says, her tone smug.
Nick coughs. “I’m a little tired.”
“You’re a little distracted.”
Nick sighs and drinks his tea. He has been distracted, he knows that. Distracted by a pair of ice-grey eyes and a frosty voice. He frowns. He shouldn’t be thinking about Jack Frost. They met weeks ago. And Jack Frost made a terrible first impression that Nick is definitely hoping will be the last he ever gets to make. Nick doesn’t need new friends, and he doesn’t need an enemy, and he certainly doesn’t need to ever see or think about Jack Frost ever again. He nods, glad to be making that decision for the fiftieth time since Christmas.
“Is this about Jack again?” Miss asks. Nick stiffens. He really regrets ever saying anything to Miss about Jack Frost. She’s his best friend and counterpart. She isn’t his wife, despite the name, and she isn’t the therapist she insists he needs. She doesn’t need to know about every little thing that happens on his route. He should have just told her about the dog that tried to play tug-of-war with his coat, or the old lady who woke up in the middle of his delivery and thought he was her son. He drops his mug back onto the table and turns to the list.
“No,” he says, as much for himself as her.
“You know, you say that word a lot and I don’t think you know what it means.” He can hear the grin in her voice and it makes him annoyed for reasons he can’t pinpoint.
“It’s not about Jack Frost.”
There’s a gentle pause, and Nick starts to circle ‘nice’ on the list as often as he can.
“Nick,” Miss says, her voice soft. Nick turns to her, his pen still in his hand, and smiles. He can see the tension in her shoulders now that he’s really paying attention, and it’s clear that she is worried about him. He thinks back. Okay, so maybe he’s been a bit grumpy as well as a bit distracted. Meeting difficult people apparently makes him sullen. He leans forward, resting a hand on Miss’s knee.
“I promise it isn’t about Jack Frost. It isn’t about anything. I’m just… going through the motions. And in a couple of days, I’ll be back to my old jolly self. We can make gingerbread biscuits and I’ll even watch that film where they make me look like an old man with a temper.”
Miss smiles, ruefully. “You do have a temper.”
“Only when the elves fuck up.”
Miss laughs at that, a hug of a laugh that instantly lifts Nick’s spirits. He’s so lucky to have Miss here to pull him out of his funks and remind him he has better things to think about than Jack Frost and his ridiculous lack of clothes. He gives himself a shake, gives Miss a wide grin, and twirls in his wheelie chair to get back to work. Miss leaves a few minutes later, clearly bored with watching Nick circle ‘nice’, and Nick manages to concentrate for a full fifteen minutes before having a single thought about ice-grey eyes.
JACK
Jack calls Pascal on the phone that sort of works, but is very, very old. He had a smartphone, but the frost made it glitchy. He listens to the phone ringing, waiting for Pascal to answer. He walks along a wall on his tiptoes, dropping specks of frost and puddles of ice, before stepping off and landing on the grass with a silent patter. It feels strange to be back around people. He’s spent the past few months holed up in an ice cave in Antarctica, slowly making friends with penguins who definitely didn’t like or understand him. And now he’s around people. Not at the moment. Right now, he’s naked and on a phone. He doesn’t want the humans to be shocked at the sight of it floating around, so he’s avoiding them, but he could walk five minutes in any direction and be on a somewhat busy street.
The phone continues ringing. Jack wanders over to a tree that hangs over a lake. It’s winter, and lakes sometimes freeze. Jack takes a step onto the water, letting it solidify under his feet. He watches as it spreads, the ice cracking and turning an eerie shade of white. He used to find it beautiful, when he did this. He’d spend hours sitting by lakes, watching the water turn to ice. He’d see how fast he could run across it, see if he could sink into it. He can’t. On the rare occasion that Jack gets dirty, it’s snow baths for him. Jack sighs.
“Jack!” Pascal answers finally. Jack tries to smile, and instead leaps into a tree to settle on a branch where no one will notice the sudden spot of frost.
“I’m back.”
“I thought you might be. It’s forecast for snow next week.”
Jack nods, even though Pascal can’t see him. Snow is nice, it makes it easier for him to walk around. There’s a soft pause, and Jack thinks of ways he could ask Pascal to meet up with him without actually having to ask Pascal to meet up with him.
“I’m glad you called,” Pascal says before Jack can figure it out. “I’m away at the moment, in Italy. The vampires asked if I wanted to come south for a little heat before the Gregorian New Year. I’m not sure you’ve met them. They don’t really like the cold.”
“I’ve not,” Jack says. Not that he would ever want to. Everything he’s heard about them makes it sound like vampires are arrogant and think they’re the oldest immortals on the earth, which they clearly aren’t. Plus, it’s not worth risking dying just to say ‘hi’ to one.
“Well, no. Anyway! I wanted to talk to you about Nicholas.”
“I’m not talking about Father Christmas.”
“Don’t talk then, just listen,” Pascal says. Jack shuts his mouth with a click. “I was at dinner with Ben Ogie. You know Ben: tall, very, very pale. Almost ghostlike. Lovely man. I mentioned that you’d met Nicholas, and he suggested that maybe you should try meeting him again.”
Jack scowls at the phone. There is no way that Ben Ogie said that. Ben Ogie hates Jack. They’ve met the grand total of once, and it seems to Jack that Ben has been avoiding him ever since. Jack doesn’t know much about Ben, except that he’s quiet and definitely never wants to see Jack again.
“I don’t believe you,” Jack says.
“Okay, fine. What he actually said was that there is no way that Nicholas would ever want to see you again after meeting you for the first time. Apparently, you’re a cold, prickly arsehole with an over-inflated sense of importance and an inability to hold a conversation.”
Ouch. Jack knows this, but it still stings to hear it said out loud by the immortal that Jack considers to be his closest friend. His only friend. It’s hard to keep friends when you can’t go anywhere warm and live half your life in a remote, icy wilderness. Jack thumps his head against the trunk of the tree and squeezes his eyes tightly shut, taking deep breaths.
“I don’t want to have this conversation,” he says, knowing that Pascal isn’t going to give him an option. Pascal, predictably, laughs.
“Of course, you don’t! But we’re having it anyway. I think you should try and meet Nicholas again. Show him that you can make a good second impression. You never know, you two might become friends.”
Jack doubts this very, very much. He can’t imagine a world where he willingly spends time with Father Christmas
NICK
Nick holds tightly to the reins as he guides the sleigh onto the roof in front of him, gently muttering to the reindeer as their hooves land softly and the sleigh comes to a stop. He’s having a great year so far. He’s managed to get through almost a third of the houses he needs to visit, and he hasn’t had anything go particularly wrong. A couple of alarms and pets and uneven rugs, but nothing he can’t handle. He leaps from the sleigh, landing with a thump. There’s a spring in his step, a child to deliver presents to, and a man leaning against the chimney breast. Wait.
Nick frowns at Jack Frost. Now that he knows who Jack Frost is, he can spot the tell-tale signs. The sharpness, the stillness, the way everything in his body is almost too angular, like he’s a blade of ice ready to stab through someone’s heart. Also, the frost that is slowly seeping from where his body is touching the things around him. That’s a big sign too.
“What are you doing here?” Nick asks. Jack Frost looks at him, but doesn’t say anything, and Nick’s good mood shatters. He’d been having such a great night, and now Jack Frost is here with his lack of clothes and lack of conversation, just to ruin it. “Look, I have work to do, so if you don’t mind fucking off somewhere else, that would be great.”
“Busy night, is it?” Jack Frost says, sending those shivers down Nick’s spine.
“As a matter of fact, yeah,” Nick growls. Jack stands up straight and starts to walk towards Nick. His feet make pools of frost, and Nick is suddenly aware he’s looking at Jack Frost’s bare feet instead of his face, which is the only place Nick has given himself permission to look.
“Should I put clothes on?” Jack Frost says, his lips twisting into something that could be a smirk.
Nick coughs. “It doesn’t matter to me. I’m not hanging around.”
Jack makes a non-committal noise and tilts his head to the side. His unblinking eyes never leave Nick’s face. Close up, Nick can see that they’re almost the same height, and that Jack Frost has blue veins running up his neck, and that he’s covered, absolutely covered, in tiny, star-like freckles.
“I’m Jack Frost.” Jack Frost holds out his hand, and for a moment Nick considers not taking it. He doesn’t like this man, and he can tell that Jack Frost doesn’t like him either, so he isn’t sure why they would build any sort of relationship now, when they've very easily avoided one for the hundreds of years they've both been in existence. But something tells him that he should shake this man’s hand, just to see what it’s like, so he does.
“Nicholas Claus,” he says. Jack Frost’s hand is cold through Nick’s glove, as Nick knew it would be, but it looks soft, which he hadn’t guessed. Jack Frost looks at him for a moment before a somewhat small and somewhat real smile tickles the corners of his mouth. It makes him look younger, and Nick lets go before he does anything else reckless. He focuses on his hand as he brushes frost off his glove, straightening his red, wool-lined coat even though he doesn’t need to. After a moment he looks up to find that Jack is staring at him again with that assessing gaze. It makes the hairs on the back of Nick’s neck stand on end.
“Pascal told me that I make terrible first impressions,” Jack Frost says. He’s moved his hands behind his back. Nick coughs and forces his eyes to meet Jack Frost’s.
“Yeah, that’s what he said, was it?”
Jack’s head tilts in an approximation of a nod. “In more words.”
“Pascal is a fan of words.”
Jack Frost just watches him. Nick should be delivering presents, not having the most awkward and stilted conversation of his life. Jack Frost doesn’t seem to notice, or else he doesn’t care. Nick runs his hand through his hair and shifts his weight from one leg to the other, trying to get some space between him and Jack Frost, even if it’s just mental space. Although physical space would be ideal. Jack doesn’t seem like he’s going to move, so Nick does the sensible thing and takes a step back. This is good. Taking control of the situation. Nick likes being in control.
“So, Pascal told you off, did he?” he says, beaming at Jack Frost because he beams at everyone, because he is Santa Claus. Jack Frost rolls his eyes.
“I need to leave now. You have children to impress with gifts.” Jack Frost goes to move, and Nick laughs. Leaving in the middle of a conversation, without even saying goodbye, is absolutely everything Nick expected from Jack Frost. He doesn't know why he’s let one handshake and three lines of conversation about their mutual friend lull him into a false sense of friendliness. But then Jack Frost stops, and turns, his brows drawn low, as if he’s confused by the sound of laughter.
“I thought you were going,” Nick says.
“Why are you laughing?” Jack Frost replies.
Nick shrugs. “I’m Santa. I laugh. You know. Ho, ho, ho.”
“Ho, ho, ho?” Jack Frost looks so unimpressed that Nick doesn’t even bother to stop himself from laughing again. It’s a very funny, very ridiculous conversation to be having with someone whom he has had limited conversations with, and who is clearly only here because Pascal-The-Annoying has convinced him that he should be.
“Right. Now piss off, weather boy, so I can do my job.”
“Weather boy?” Jack Frost looks completely confused, and it makes Nick feel a million times better.
“You make frost and ice and shit. That counts as weather.”
Jack Frost raises an eyebrow, which seems to be an annoying habit of his, and Nick ignores him in favour of picking up his sack and slinging it over a shoulder. He walks past Jack Frost, their shoulders barely brushing, preparing to alter the space of the chimney. He turns to wave at Jack Frost only to find him stood at the very edge of the roof, ready to step off.
“Call me Jack,” he says, and then drops. A moment later, Nick watches him saunter down the road, hands behind his back like they hadn’t even spoken. Nick chuckles and turns back to his work.
year three
. . .
JACK
It’s Christmas eve, and Jack is back home. Home. He could laugh, if that were something he did, ever. He’s on the move, because sitting still for too long is unbearable, but there’s a gnawing in his chest that he can’t ignore. He looks down at his feet, his long toes and annoying freckles. Frost spreads from them as he walks slowly down the road. People will probably slip on the ice in the morning, if he stands still long enough for the frost to become ice.
He keeps moving.
He’s tired; that’s the problem. Not physically. He doesn’t ever need to sleep or to eat or to do anything that the humans do. But mentally. Mentally tired of walking around thinking to himself. Not talking to anyone. Not doing anything. It’s not like he can bug Pascal every day, and he doesn’t get along with many other immortals. The ones in the sea are okay, but they have their own communities and coming to the surface to talk to Jack is never a priority.
Perhaps he’s bored. Bored of wandering from place to place. He sighs to himself. As much as he loves walking aimlessly around the suburbs at night, he thinks he should probably find somewhere to sit, if he’s in this kind of mood. Pascal is away again. Apparently, his time with the vampires last year was a great success, and he’s given up scarves and jumpers for shorts and t-shirts. Jack can understand that. He’d rather be somewhere warm and happy too. Instead, he is meandering around a city, watching the frost. Again.
He steps up onto a roof, the jump from ground to 20 feet up nothing for him, and leaves a trail along the guttering. He pokes at the sludge, freezing it solid. That’ll be fun for the owners to deal with. Jack frowns at the sky. It’ll probably rain before the frost melts and turns the sludge even sludgier. The wind blows harshly across Jack’s back. He knows it’s cold, because he can feel it, but it doesn’t affect him. Not really. If anything, it feels good. He hasn’t been to a place yet that is too cold for him. There are plenty of places that are too warm.
The trees around him rustle, and he sighs, standing and slowly picking his way across the roofs of semi-detached houses. It’s not a freezing night. It’s what the humans would probably call ‘chilly’. Too warm, really, for frost to stay on the roofs of warmed houses. He turns to see his footprints melting and huffs. Too warm. At least the grass stays glistening. He hops down, smiling as the blades of grass stiffen and crunch under his feet. He doesn’t smile often, it feels strange on his face.
The wind blows again, and Jack sighs. No matter what he does, the weather will do what it always does. Maybe that’s the problem. He’s irrelevant. Unnecessary. He scowls at himself and scuffs at the floor. He must have been relevant once, or he wouldn’t exist.
He needs to stop being so maudlin.
It’s dark, and the Christmas lights cast the world in a red and green glow that Jack finds disturbing. He could do something about it. Freeze the wires, or blow the bulbs. He shakes his head. There must be something really wrong with him tonight, if he’s considering property damage. He walks away from the buildings, heading into the forest where he can be ignored in peace.
So, he’s bored. He has no one to talk to and nothing to do, it’s Christmas eve, the world is filled with annoyingly tinny music, and he’s drifting aimlessly. He’s lived for hundreds of years and he’s met every immortal who would bother to try and meet him. Pascal said he has a bad reputation, and he’s had the past year to accept that fact and move on. He’s travelled to all the places he can without causing world-wide panic at sudden frosts and without dying from the heat. There is nothing new in the world for him to do, and he is destined to live forever. It’s a horrible thought.
He knows he has a job, a reason to exist. He isn’t irrelevant. He’s Jack Frost, in charge of, well, frost. But that doesn’t mean that the weather doesn’t exist, and it doesn’t mean that he couldn't just sit in his ice cave forever and not much would change. Does the world really need Jack Frost? Jack swallows, unsure he wants to follow that line of thought. Because what if they don’t need him? Then what? What is he?
